


The love of a good vampire

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bigotry & Prejudice, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Marriage, Monster sex, Oral Sex, Politics, Riding Crops, Sex Toys, Shibari, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: The Witches were as close to being living Gods as humans could get. Or, at least, this was the prevailing opinion throughout the Continent.In a world where Witcher's are revered rather than loathed, Emiel Regis, a simple vampire and a member of the lowest rung of society, finds himself the caretaker of the great White Wolf. It's about as pleasant as having every one of his teeth pulled.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So here's that fanfic I mentioned on tumblr. It's longer than my usual ones, so I've decided to post it in chapters rather than as a one-shot. I may add extra chapters as I go.

The Witches were as close to being living Gods as humans could get. Or, at least, this was the prevailing opinion throughout the Continent. With how few children survived the Trials, the ones that did were considered to have been handpicked by a higher power, and with their stunning golden eyes and enhanced bodies, they certainly _looked_ the part of a deity. The fact they lived far longer than the average human – assuming they didn’t die in battle – only consolidated this idea in people’s minds. They were Special, Chosen, and they were treated accordingly, living the kind of lavish lifestyle that would typically be reserved only for royalty. Being on the royal payroll ensured they never wanted for anything.

Of course, being a Witcher didn’t come without risks and responsibilities. It was as much a job as it was a title. Witcher’s were monster slayers. They were required to kill at the behest of their leader. Many died doing their job and many Witcher’s barely saw a month of service before being killed, but that did not impact the overall perception of Witcher’s; the death of a Witcher was never seen as a shameful event, no matter how fast it came. To die gloriously in the service of the people was a high honour and that meant their funerals were often a time of jubilation rather than mourning.

The Witcher’s had been incredibly effective at their job. There were so few monsters roaming the lands these days that many Witcher’s participated in gladiatorial battles simply to give themselves something to do, and since their opponents were typically criminals, this too was seen as a service to the people. The use of arenas had started in Nilfgaard and had then moved rapidly through the North. The Rivian kingdom, one of the central hubs of the northern world, had constructed its own stadium a decade or so ago and it was currently being used liberally by the four Witcher’s under Queen Meve’s employ.

The monsters that weren’t slain, the sapient ones, had been either forced deeper into the wilderness or enslaved. Not that it was _called_ slavery. They might have been on the lowest rung of society, living in alienage’s and slums and forced to work for scraps, but oh, no, they weren’t _slaves_ ; they had just been forced to _assimilate_. Higher societies don’t condone or perform slavery, the leaders of the world would insist, but Regis knew that was a load of tripe. He certainly didn’t feel like a free man while living in the kingdom of Rivia, where he had been forced to serve after being found drunk by peasants and captured.

That was the extent of what Regis knew about Witcher’s and their history. As far as he was concerned, Witcher’s were little more than glorified exterminators. Nothing special. That humans regarded them so highly seemed preposterous to him, but being a servant to Queen Meve, he was in no position to voice such a controversial opinion. It would only end unpleasantly, and he had experienced enough unpleasantness while being taught to ‘assimilate’ to his new life that he wasn’t about to go out of his way to provoke more. Mages had discovered vampires were vulnerable to magic fire, you see, and it had been used _liberally_ in his indoctrination.

He had previously worked as Queen Meve’s personal guard, and a very effective one at that. Whenever the Queen had travelled beyond her palace, he had followed at her heels, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of trouble. It had been a good job, comfortable and easy. It had provided him with privileges not often offered to his kind, such as the ability to choose his own home in the alienage. But it wasn’t his job anymore. Dettlaff had taken over guarding Meve and he had been assigned a different duty.

The duty in question was being the attendant of the Queens prized Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself. Regis didn’t know a lot about the man. He had seen him gallivanting around the palace with his friends and women in the past, but rarely had they spoken, and what few words they had exchanged gave Regis the impression Geralt didn’t much like him. He suspected the man harboured a mistrust of vampires. It wouldn’t have been surprising, given his profession. Regis only hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of his work. He already knew Geralt would be a handful, because _all_ Witcher’s were, but if the Witcher maintained his misgivings about Regis’ kind, it would make it difficult to do his job.

Upon being guided to the Witcher’s chambers by the Queen, Regis couldn’t say he was terribly surprised to find the Witcher lying buck-naked in bed with a woman gyrating on top of him. To his credit, he did seem embarrassed when he noticed their presence. He extracted the woman none too gently, pushing her out of bed, and covered himself with a sheet. The woman fled the room without even bothering to dress.

“Geralt, I told you your new attendant would be coming at noon today,” said Queen Meve. She placed her hands on her hips. “You were to be dressed and ready.”

“Don’t need an attendant,” Geralt muttered while groping under the covers for his clothes. Presumably, anyway, since Regis doubted he would try to pleasure himself while the Queen was in the room.

“You most certainly do,” said Meve. “And fortunately, whether or not you have one is _not_ your decision.”

Geralt scowled at her. Regis had never seen someone scowl at the Queen before. It was an odd thing to witness, particularly as the Queen only responded with a long-suffering sigh.

“This is Emiel Regis, Geralt,” said Meve, gesturing to Regis.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, but I expect you would prefer to refer to me as either Emiel or Regis,” he said with a flourishing bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Witcher Geralt.”

Geralt slipped on his underwear and stood, kicking his sheets out the way as he searched for the rest of his clothes. “Any reason in particular you hired a vampire for this job?” He cast Meve an inquisitive look. “You know I don’t like or trust vampires.”

At being ignored, Regis frowned. He was liking this Witcher less and less by the minute.

“That’s exactly why I’ve hired him,” said Queen Meve. “If anyone will be able to keep you in line, it’s a vampire. And keep in mind, Geralt: I’ve permitted him to use force when necessary.”

Geralt snorted. “Is forcing me to your balls and dinners _that_ important to you?” he asked, pulling on a shirt.

“It is,” said Queen Meve. She then added, hotly, “And so is your attending in _appropriate_ attire. We do not wear armour covered in blood in the dining hall, Geralt.”

“The woman I was seated next to seemed perfectly fine with it.”

“You could have shown up completely naked and she still wouldn’t have minded.”

Geralt arched his eyebrows at Meve. She frowned.

“Don’t you _dare_ make a smart comment.” Meve wagged his finger at him. “I’m warning you, Geralt: you had better behave for Mister Emiel Regis or I will be sending you to the gladiator pit with three Shaelmaar.”

“You like me too much to do that,” said Geralt mildly. “Besides, isn’t the point of this to _prevent_ me from getting myself killed?”

The Queen threw up her hands and turned to Regis. “I leave him to you. Best of luck.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” said Regis, bowing her out. She shut the door hard enough to leave it rattling on its hinges.

Geralt, in the middle of pulling on pants, glanced up at him. “Seems you’re moving up in the world, vampire.”

While watching the Witcher inadvertently moon him, he didn’t much feel like that was true. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” said Regis.

He stepped further into the room, taking in his sumptuous surroundings with a degree of envy. Compared to this, his dwelling might as well have been a cave. Not even a _nice_ cave; a tiny one that leaked and smelt of mildew. Not that he would have minded living in such circumstances; most vampires were quite happy to live in any dark, compact space they could find, including Regis, but it was still embittering to see this man – this _arrogant_ and _rude_ man – have so much more than he and his brethren could ever wish for. There would never be a monster among nobility.

Having finished dressing, Geralt sat down heavily upon his bed. He fiddled with a brassiere that had been left behind by the girl. “With that wit,” murmured Geralt. “I may just find your company enjoyable. For what little time I will have it, in any case.”

“You think I won’t last in this job?” asked Regis.

“Of course not,” said Geralt. “It’s nothing personal, Regis, but I don’t need an attendant, and I’ve no intention of making this easy for you.” He raised his legs up onto the mattress and stretched out, lounging like a cat. “Necessary collateral.”

“I’m a very persistent man, you’ll find,” said Regis. He folded his hands behind his back and offered Geralt a tight-lipped smile. “Never have I failed at a given task, and I’ve no intention of this being my first.”

The Witcher raised his head off his pillow, and as he did, he returned Regis’ smile in an unpleasant twist of his lips. There was so much gum and teeth it could have been mistaken for a snarl. “We’ll see about that.”


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting deeper into the story now! I'm kind of nervous about how this AU is going to be received, so here's hoping you guys like it!

By the end of his first month in service to the Queen’s prized Witcher, Regis could not deny his exhaustion. He had never known a man to be so exasperating. Nothing was ever easy with Geralt. It took extreme effort to get him to do anything that wasn’t fucking, eating or fighting, and even when Regis _did_ manage to get him to perform his duties, he did so with such obvious reluctance that it was humiliating for Regis. And god, the _whining_ ; it almost seemed a sport to Geralt, who would whine about everything from the weather to seating placement. ‘Regis, it’s too cold for this’, ‘this doublet chafes’, ‘I don’t like the food they’re serving’, ‘It’s too early to be doing this’, ‘why can’t I sit at the front?’ – it was grating to listen to. Resisting the urge to slap him upside the head took incredible self-control. There were times he wished to do more than that, to hold Geralt down and punish him as befitted a child until he agreed to stop _acting_ like one, but while the Queen had given him permission to manhandle Geralt, he suspected such chastisement would not go over well.

The worst thing was that Geralt _knew_ better; Regis knew that he did because he had seen how Geralt behaved when Geralt thought he wasn't looking. He had shown himself capable of being polite and well-spoken in conversation, so he knew, at least to some extent, how to behave. He simply favoured acting out. Had Regis not been in the unfortunate position of being a threat to Geralt's independence, perhaps the man would have mellowed over time and shown more of that side of himself. But as he _was_ in that position, Geralt's every action was a concentrated effort to drive Regis to his breaking point, to get him to throw in the towel, and it didn't seem like that would end anytime soon. 

He wasn't at all surprised when Geralt’s best friend and personal biographer, Dandelion, told him he wasn't Geralt’s first or even second handler, but his _seventh_. The others had quit, pleaded to be reassigned, or failed so utterly at their job that they had been replaced. One of them hadn’t even lasted a week. Regis could sympathise. He suspected he wouldn't have lasted long either, had he been human. 

Despite his misgivings with the job, he had no intention of letting Geralt out-will him. If Geralt kept on getting what he wanted, he would never change. He would never grow. Regis couldn't in good conscience let that happen while he had the opportunity to impress some decency on Geralt. With an infinite lifespan, he had plenty of time in which to do it. Until his efforts started to have an effect, however, it was going to be damn hard to maintain a calm veneer. The lure of just _slapping_ some sense into Geralt grew with each passing day, and the longer he struggled, the less likely it seemed normal routes of education would work on Geralt. It was ultimately the possibility of repercussions that stayed his hand. He didn't want to be stripped of his rank because of a brat of a Witcher.

He had to remain calm.

Calm.

“ _Another_  meeting? I have better things to do with my time, Regis. Go ahead and attend in my place.”

Regis ground his molars.

 _Calm_.

* * *

One of Regis' primary tasks was escorting Geralt places, and the places he found himself taking Geralt the most were his fellow Witcher's rooms. With the exception of the semi-retired Vesemir, Regis found them to be just as rowdy as Geralt himself was. They would have benefited from being given their own attendants, but being less renowned than Geralt, and far less prone to getting into trouble, the Queen hadn't felt the need to assign them one.

Eskel exhibited more self-control and modesty than either of his companions, but Regis quickly discovered that any trace of maturity disappeared the moment alcohol touched his lips. With how often the trio drank, he was commonly found bellowing about whores and vomiting on peoples shoes, behaviour which Regis felt the need to discourage despite having no obligation to do so. 

The youngest Witcher of the three, Lambert, spent more time egging his friends on than getting himself into trouble, and what trouble he _did_ get into was always quickly dealt with by one of his better behaved 'friends'. Being a sorceress, Keira Metz was more than up to the task of reigning in her Witcher. She seemed to have something of a leash on Lambert, courtesy of what Regis suspected was an intimate relationship. It was hard not to be a little envious of her position when half the time Regis could barely get Geralt to put on a nice shirt.

Regis never joined in with the merrymaking. He had decided to abstain from drinking any kind of alcoholic substance following the drinking spree that had ended in his capture. In any case, the brews the Witcher’s favoured weren’t to his taste. Much too weak for his palate.

While they drank, Regis sat somewhere quiet and read. The keep contained an expansive library, so he was never lacking something to peruse while waiting for Geralt to become too intoxicated to continue gulping down drink. He was currently working his way through a series of books written on the Plants of the Northern Realms and their uses. While this may not have been an interesting topic to many, gardening was one of the few hobbies Regis had outside of work. He had even cultivated his own little pot garden of herbs, which he would periodically store in jars and gift to friends.

He was in the middle of reading a riveting chapter on Beggartick blossoms when he noticed he could no longer hear the distant voices of Geralt and his comrades. That only happened when all three of them had managed to pass out from over-consumption. Something that didn’t happen often, but _did_ happen nonetheless. With a sigh, he closed his book and slid it into his bag, standing to approach the room. The heady smell of mead and wine invaded his nostrils as he entered Eskel's chambers.

Eskel was sprawled out on his dining table, drooling onto the arm he had pillowing his head. Neither Lambert nor Geralt were anywhere to be seen. Cursing under his breath, Regis strode up to Eskel and gave him a shake. The man moaned softly before peeling open one bloodshot eye.

“What?” he slurred, twisting out from under Regis’ hand and burying his face back into his arm, directly over the saliva he’d slathered over it.

“Where are Lambert and Geralt?” he asked, trying for some patience. “Do you know?”

“Uh…” It took Eskel several long seconds to continue. “Went to the whorehouse, I think.”

“The whorehouse? Why? They can get women sent here.”

“Yeah, but Geralt… he wants to ride one.” Eskel yawned and closed his eye. “Wants to ride one across the river.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wants to ride a whore across the river,” Eskel clarified with difficulty. It was only Regis’ enhanced sense of hearing that enabled him to decipher what exactly Eskel was saying through the slurring.

“A whore across the river…” Regis drew back in disbelief, running a hand over his face. If Geralt was seen to be attempting that, the Queen was going to kill both of them. Geralt first, hopefully, so Regis could tell him he was an idiot who deserved it before he expired.

Eskel had fallen back to sleep before Regis could question him any further. As there was only one brothel in the entire city, it wouldn’t be hard to track them down from here anyway.

Regis took a shortcut, exiting through a nearby window through use of his mist form. He wasn’t permitted to use it unless absolutely necessary; in fact, it was only upon receiving this job that the magic used to subdue his abilities had been lifted, but being that this was an emergency, he was sure the Queen would understand.

He dropped smoothly onto the cobblestone street containing the brothel and glanced around, checking each direction for Geralt before stepping into the brothel itself.

He didn’t find Geralt or Lambert there, and nor did anyone know where exactly they had gone. Apparently they had come in, paid for a girl, and dragged her out without much ceremony. The next place to check, then, was the river. Regis hoped he would not come upon Geralt and the girl already in the water.

He heard Geralt long before he saw him. The man was whooping at the top of his lungs and demanding that the prostitute enter the river, much to the prostitutes chagrin. The prostitute was resolutely refusing his demand despite the awe in her voice. He arrived to the following scene:

The woman on her hands and knees in the dirt with a very inebriated and shirtless Geralt sitting on her back, attempting to guide her into the river. She was barely managing to withstand his weight, her forearms shaking and her teeth clenched. They were supremely lucky that the only witnesses to Geralt’s absurdity were a few guard, who appeared too intimidated to try to stop Geralt from harassing the prostitute.

Upon reaching Geralt, Regis grabbed him around the arm and heaved him off the girl. She stood, brushed down her skirts, and stormed off.

“For goodness sake, Geralt,” Regis said, pulling him to eye-level by his chin. “These people see you as a veritable God, and _this_ is how you choose to behave?”

Geralt blinked at him. “I paid that girl in advance. Wasted money. She didn’t know how to swim.”

Regis sighed. “I think she more than earned your coin. She’ll need it to launder her dress.”

“Oh, yeah,” agreed Geralt with a shrug. “Guess so. Hey, do you know where my shirt is?”

“And why ever would _I_ know where it is?” asked Regis, releasing Geralt’s chin and guiding him out of the mud. “Forget the shirt, Geralt. You’ve plenty to replace it.”

“It was a nice shirt, though.” Geralt stumbled over his own feet, chest bumping into Regis’ shoulder. Regis quickly righted him and coiled an arm around his waist to ensure he wouldn’t go toppling over.

“You wouldn’t have lost if had you not overindulged,” said Regis. “Something to keep in mind for the future.”

“Nah.” Geralt pushed some hair out of his face. A simple task, one would have thought, but he managed to hit himself in the eye socket. Regis rolled his eyes and tucked Geralt's hair behind his ears for him. Truly, it was like dealing with a toddler.

"Where's Lambert?" he asked, glancing around. Geralt shrugged.

"Went to find a painter, I think." Geralt scratched the nape of his neck. "You know, so... so we'd have a painting as a memento."

"...A memento for the night you crossed the river on a whore?"

"Exactly."

Regis shook his head in disapproval. “Why do you indulge in drinking so very often, Geralt? I am familiar with the lure, but you have so much at your disposal, so much more than many. Surely there are better things you can do with your time?”

“You’d think so.” When Geralt smiled at him, there was a strange, sad quality to it. “Regis,” said Geralt, and Regis listened very intently. “When I drink again, remind me not to have the wine. Tastes shit coming back up.”

Regis glanced away. “Very well, Geralt, but I would prefer you not to drink at all.”

"Mmm, good thing your preferences don't matter, then."

With how drunk Geralt was, the journey to his room ended up being a long and arduous one. Geralt managed to vomit into a pot plant before they arrived at their destination and Regis grimaced in sympathy for the cleaning staff. They weren’t going to have a pleasant morning. Neither would Geralt, for that matter, but Geralt had very much earned his unpleasant morning, while the cleaning staff had done nothing to deserve needing to clean vomit out of a pot plant.

Once inside, Regis lowered Geralt into bed and pulled off his shoes for him, then his socks and trousers. Geralt was already half-asleep when he finished. It promised to be a cold night, so Regis threw the quilt over him before taking his leave.

After the hangover he was likely to get from this, Geralt would abstain from drinking excessively for at least a little while. A week or so of reprieve, at the very least. It was a pittance, but Regis would take what rest from Geralt’s antics that he could get.

It was approaching midnight when he entered his small shack in the alienage. The door creaked as he pushed it open and dust spilled out into the street. There was no need for him to unlock the door, as it didn't _have_ a lock; very few houses in the alienage did. He retrieved two apples from his pantry and sat down on the rickety chair he used as a couch, skimming through his book on northern plants while he chewed. It didn't take him long to be lulled to sleep by his own monotonous thoughts.

* * *

It seemed to Regis that Geralt's favourite pastime was wasting Regis’ time. He did it almost as much as he drank, which was to say, quite a lot. His favoured method was sitting around complaining about Regis’ requests instead of actually fulfilling Regis’ requests, but he would also throw in there unnecessary trips to the kitchen to flirt with the staff and trailing after the cleaners while they worked. Regis’ was undecided on what waste of time he found the most galling. It was hard to choose when a feeling of general exasperation would descend no matter what Geralt did. How anyone could mistake the man for a God was beyond him.

He was fortunate to have two sympathetic ears in the form of Dettlaff and Orianna, who patiently listened whenever he felt the urge to rant about how _inconsiderate_ Geralt was, how _rude_ , how _selfish_. He had used so many negative adjectives to describe Geralt that he was running out of options. He was going to have to start using vampiric words to keep things interesting.

“If you hate the job that much, why don’t you quit?” asked Dettlaff after one of his tirades. He handed Regis a cup of chamomile tea, presumably in the hope it would calm Regis down. “I’m sure the Queen would understand.”

“I will not concede defeat, especially a mere two months after taking the job,” said Regis, which sounded like a much weaker justification than he had thought it would when said out loud. 

Dettlaff shook his head. He didn’t understand. Of course he wouldn’t; he was a man who avoided confrontation whenever possible. He couldn’t understand that some things had to be done on principle.

“And there are pleasant moments,” said Regis, shifting in his chair and drawing his tea closer. He folded his hands around the little ceramic cup and took a sip. It was sweet. “I’m not suffering for a full twenty-four-hour period."

“Oh? You aren't?” Dettlaff arched an eyebrow. “This is new. Go on, then. What pleasantries have you experienced?”

Regis had to pause to think. The enjoyable moments with Geralt were few and far between. “The Witcher can be quite the captivating conversational partner, at times. Provided the discussion features one of his topics of interest.” He paused again, thinking. "He has told me a few curious things about Witcher's."

“Is that all?”

“Well, he’s also wonderful company while asleep," offered Regis.

The corner of Dettlaff’s mouth curved. “I can imagine," he said, stirring his own cup of tea with a finger. Dettlaff didn't own teaspoons. "Still, I’m not convinced your near constant misery is worth these rare moments of reprieve, nor does the satisfaction of victory seem like worthy compensation, assuming victory is even possible.”

Regis looked away from the concern on Dettlaff's face. “If there is no change within a couple of years, I will _consider_ stepping down. Would that placate you?”

“It would, yes,” said Dettlaff. “And should you decide to do so, I imagine the Queen will be happy to have you back at her side.”

“Being at her side is _your_ job, Dettlaff; I’ve no intention of taking it from you.”

“It would not be taking it if I relinquished it voluntarily.”

“And what would you do, having lost your job?”

“Return to my old one, naturally. It wouldn't be hard. I was the best employee he had.”

“Mm, you _were_ quite the talented toy maker," Regis conceded. Dettlaff had carved and painted several beautiful little animals for Regis over the course of his employment. They sat on Regis' kitchen counter, and every time he looked at them, he was left in awe of the depth of detail. 

"Then you are serious about leaving if the Witcher shows no improvement?"

"I said I would _consider_ it," said Regis. "I can't say what I will decide at the time, but I'm quite determined to make something of the boy. He has potential, Dettlaff. He _can_  improve."

Dettlaff shook his head once more. “Then I wish you the best of luck, my friend. You will need it.”

Regis had spoken with conviction, but he didn’t feel it quite as deeply as he wished he did. It was hard not to be a little discourage when two months of work had wrought absolutely no results. If anything, Geralt was getting _more_ rambunctious rather than less, and Regis simply didn’t know what to do. He was taking each day as it came and hoping something – some solution – would jump out at him.

Thus far, he had been left disappointed.

* * *

Reaching his fourth month of service hadn’t changed the status quo. Geralt remained as infuriating as he had been when he'd started the job. He still refused to listen, refused to perform his duties, refused to extend Regis even a modicum of respect, and indulged generously in his vices. His antics left Regis tired. He’d never known such a full-body exhaustion to exist before meeting Geralt.

Recently he had discovered Geralt would sneak out of meetings if he wasn’t there to keep him in his chair, and this only exacerbated his fatigue. Now he had to stand in a corner of the room (he wasn’t permitted to sit) and watch Geralt until the Queen and her subjects had finished their discourse. These meetings never went for less than an hour, and he didn’t have the benefit of being able to read to pass the time, as he knew from prior experience that Geralt would notice and try to leave if his attention was even briefly elsewhere.

The Witcher made little effort to participate. An odd comment here, a grunt there. Many of the topics were relevant to his work, so it was frustrating to watch him be so noncommittal. Regis would have given his very immortality to be able to participate in the discussions. There were a great many things he wanted to say, particularly in regards to the alienage and its residents, but he had no choice but to hold his tongue. Speaking would get him kicked out.

The arena seemed to be the only thing one could get him to speak liberally about. The moment it came up, he was at the forefront of the discussion, suggesting future events and renovations and arguing with the other members of the Queen's elite over how much money it should be allocated. Though the dialogue never lasted long, the Queen appeared pleased with what few contributions Geralt made.

To Regis’ satisfaction, Geralt almost always looked just as tired as he by the end of a meeting. Listening to three hours of heated discussion about architecture and trading tended to do that to a person. Even the Queen looked miserable by a meetings conclusion, and she was the one who arranged them.

The merrymaking resumed the moment Geralt left the room. Rarely could Regis convince Geralt to do anything productive following a formal gathering. He needed to wind down with a few hours of drinking and fucking and the like before he would even briefly consider tending to his other duties (Regis found he was getting used to the smell of alcohol and sex that permeated Geralt's life, though he tried very hard to avoid being present for the latter activity; babysitter or not, he had no obligation to linger while Geralt was fornicating).

There was only one obligation Regis could get Geralt to do at any time of day, without an argument: fighting in the arena. Fighting monsters was his job; it was what he’d been created to do, and fighting monsters before an audience was far more fulfilling than dragging himself out the keep to fight monsters on his lonesome. He didn’t take much pleasure in the fighting itself, but thoroughly enjoyed the praise and admiration that came with it. He usually had a besotted woman hanging off his arm when it came time to leave. Consequently, when Regis brought up the arena, Geralt was willing to listen. Not always, but often enough that Regis looked for excuses to bring it up.

Another benefit of the arena was how quiet Geralt would be after. A good fight left him exhausted and docile. A nice change of pace from how he usually behaved. Sometimes Regis could even get him to do things, though usually he had a better chance of just sitting quietly with a book while Geralt had a quick romp in another room and napped (not necessarily in that order). He would have suggested the arena every day had he the option. Unfortunately, there were only so many fights that could be arranged in one week.

“Say, Regis,” said Geralt on a rare hot, sunny day while sitting in the participants waiting room. He hadn't yet found the strength to return to his chambers. “Your hands – how good are you with them?”

Regis blanched at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Geralt reached an arm around to his back, groaning. “Got hit between the shoulder blades. I need a massage.”

“I am your attendant, Geralt, not your _masseuse_.”

“The Queen’s paying you to be whatever I need you to be,” said Geralt. “And I need you to fix my back.”

Regis ran a hand down his face, which was something he found himself doing regularly as of late. “Why not call one of your masseuses? In fact, I’ll gladly retrieve one for you.”

“Want you to do it.”

Regis pursed his lips. “If you’re trying to humiliate me, there are better ways to go about it.”

“Never said I was doing that,” said Geralt, his voice practically a growl. He was clearly growing impatient. “The Queen isn’t paying you to back talk me-“

“That is exactly what she is paying me to do, Geralt.”

Geralt slumped, glaring up at Regis. “What do you want me to do? Say please?”

“That _would_ be a nice change of pace,” said Regis with a quirk of his lips.

“Please,” said Geralt with clear reluctance.

Surprised as he was, Regis was rendered silent for a long moment. It was the first he’d ever heard the word ‘please’ spoken by Geralt. He’d begun to think it wasn’t part of his vocabulary.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “I suppose I could. Sit on the floor, Geralt.”

To his surprise, yet again, Geralt did not refuse. He slid off the bench and onto the floor, folding his legs under himself.

Regis slotted himself behind Geralt, his knees on either side of Geralt’s shoulders, and got to work. He wasn’t trained in massaging by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d used the skill in  _other_ contexts enough to have a general idea of what felt good. They hadn’t the oil Regis would use while doing this for someone, but Geralt’s back was already slick with sweat, and Regis made do. He ground the heel of his hand between Geralt's shoulders and worked at stubborn knots with his thumbs. What he was doing must have felt nice, because Geralt periodically groaned and shivered, turning pliable under his hands. 

It was hard not to notice how Geralt smelt while in such close quarters. The scent of leather and metal and musk wafted off his skin; not at all unpleasant smells, and he found himself leaning closer to better identify what other scents were among them. Geralt didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind. Regis’ nose practically brushed the nape of Geralt’s neck before he caught himself and withdrew. While such behaviour was normal among vampires, he was sure Geralt wouldn’t appreciate the proximity. Humans valued their personal space.

“Will that suffice?” asked Regis after what he estimated to be fifteen minutes of working on the knots in Geralt’s back. He was looser now and probably would have sunk to the floor if not for Regis’ hands holding him in place.

Geralt glanced back at him, clearly dazed. “Oh, mm… yes.”

“Good.” Regis gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Now, I believe it’s time you took a shower. You can’t attend the Queen’s dinner smelling as you are.”

“There’s not a chance I’m going to attend that,” said Geralt, standing.

Regis sighed. The compliance had been nice while it had lasted.

By bribing Geralt with a bottle of his mandrake brew, Regis did eventually manage to get Geralt to attend the dinner, and in a doublet no less, but he was mentally spent by the time he retired for the night. Perhaps one of these days he would get to return home without feeling as though he’d been babysitting a toddler all day. He stepped into his house, closed his door, and didn’t even bother grabbing himself something for dinner before sliding into bed.

For a few days after their encounter in the arena, Regis dared hope that Geralt's willingness to listen to him indicated a positive step in their relationship. He had seen more versatility in Geralt's behaviour that day than he had in _three months_. Within a fortnight, however, it became apparent that his hope had been misplaced: Geralt's behaviour remained as vexing as ever, if not more so with how stand-offish he had become following that brief moment of vulnerability. Now Regis couldn't even _touch_ Geralt without Geralt's hackles being raised, and the inconvenience of it made Regis regret ever submitting to the mans demand for special treatment. 

* * *

It wasn't until his sixth month of service that he reached his breaking point. His one hundredth and sixty fifth day of service, to be precise.

Geralt was being petulant, as per usual, and refusing to listen to a single thing Regis said, as per usual, and he simply socked him in the jaw. It wasn't a particularly hard punch; certainly nothing compared to the beatings Geralt received in the arena, and yet he still toppled back onto his ass with a satisfying thud. It must have been the surprise that sent him reeling, because there was nothing but unaltered shock on Geralt's face. He stared at Regis like Regis had just turned himself inside out.

Regis hadn't entirely expected it either. He wasn't an easy man to provoke. 

He gave his knuckles a rub with a thumb before approaching Geralt and kneeling down. He caught Geralt's chin in a hand, his grip gentle, but firm.

“Listen carefully, Geralt,” said Regis. “I am not going to tolerate this any longer. I’m done with your whining and your drinking and your refusal to extend me the basic courtesy of listening. I have had  _enough_.” He raised a finger, pointing it at Geralt’s bed. “The next time you act up, I’m going to tie you to that bed and leave you there. I’ll leave you until the following morning, if need be, because clearly my other methods of getting through to you aren't working. It's not something I _want_ to do, but I don't feel you are giving me any choice. Do you understand that, Geralt? Do you understand that you are _forcing_ me to treat you like a misbehaving child?”

Geralt swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. He didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question,” said Regis, shifting upon Geralt’s stomach, and – oh. He glanced back. As he did, Geralt tried to move out from under him, wiggling like a viper, but he didn’t move fast enough to prevent Regis from seeing the tent in his trousers. It brushed up against the curve of Regis’ ass, hard and hot.

Well, _that_ certainty put a new spin on why Geralt had been so adverse to his touch lately.

“Get off,” Geralt growled, his face dusted pink. Had he wanted to, he could have dislodged Regis with a shove. But he made no such attempt. 

Regis regarded him curiously. His protest seemed of the _token_ variety. “That appears to be what you want to do, yes,” said Regis, reigning in a chuckle when Geralt blushed even darker. “Care to explain why my punching you led to this?”

Geralt’s jaw visibly tightened. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you certain? This seems the sort of thing one should discuss.”

Geralt moved to grab Regis in a way that was most definitely not intended to  _remove_  him, but Regis caught his wrists before he could. Geralt let out a noise of frustration.

“If you’re not going to  _do_  something, then release me.” Geralt gave a firm jerk of his hands, but it wasn’t enough to dislodge Regis’ grip. 

“You’re going to have to be specific about what you want me to do,” said Regis, smiling playfully. He was enjoying the change in their dynamic. Rarely did he have the upper hand with Geralt.

Geralt hunched his shoulders and turned his face away. It was difficult for him to do so, seeing as Regis still had his chin clasped in one hand, but Regis permitted him to do that much. It was endearing, in a way. He’d never seen the Witcher be shy before. He’d never seen any Witcher be shy before, for that matter.

“You know what I want,” Geralt muttered dourly.

“I really don’t,” said Regis. “If you wish this to go anywhere, I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me. Or, alternatively, you could ask me to release you.”

"I don't want to be released."

"Then what _do_ you want, Geralt?" asked Regis, insistent. " _Tell_ me, or we will remain at an impasse."

Geralt chose a much more direct method of informing Regis of what he wanted: he brought their mouths together so violently that Regis tasted blood – not _his_  own sticky, black blood, but a fresh spill of crimson. He had to take a deep breath to regain control of himself as it smeared his tongue.

Witcher blood was  _exquisite_ , potent and sharp in ways no other humans had ever been. He licked it off Geralt’s mouth, unable to help himself, and shuddered against a wave of thirst and lust. Whatever the mutations had done to Geralt’s blood, it was a concoction worthy of even an Elder. 

He shifted atop Geralt and slid a thigh between Geralt’s legs, feeling Geralt’s swelling cock radiate warmth through his leggings. The Witcher groaned softly as he ground down. Regis swallowed the sound and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, his teeth grazing the fine skin and drawing forth another spill of blood that he lapped up with relish.

He didn’t allow himself to get too distracted by his desire to drink. He had no intention of leaving Geralt unsatisfied, and nor did he want to break an almost two century long sobriety. A few sips was fine, but anything more would put them both in danger. It took a great deal of self-control to pull his lips away, but fortunately, Regis had had a very long time to develop self-discipline. He drew his attention to Geralt’s hair, which he gripped in a hand to keep Geralt in place.

“Such a brat,” he murmured into Geralt’s mouth, rolling his leg just to listen to Geralt’s breath stutter. He’d heard the sex he had with floozies often enough to know this was unusual for him. He wasn’t usually so loud, so open, and Regis took pleasure in that. “But a pretty one, I will concede,” he finished in a purr.

“Fh- fuck,” was all Geralt managed in response. He arched up into Regis’ leg and Regis made a chiding sound with his tongue, gently pressing Geralt back to the floor with his body. It wasn’t difficult. Even Witcher’s with all their enhanced abilities were no match physically for a vampire.

“Be a good boy, Geralt, and keep still.” Regis gave Geralt’s crotch another good grind. The man trembled. “If you’re good, I may even be persuaded to do this again.”

The thought of being intimate with Regis again was apparently compelling enough for Geralt to fall still. He did so with difficulty, biting at the corner of a lip while his hands twitched in Regis’ grip. It was more compliance than he’d ever received from Geralt, and it was so very satisfying.

He licked Geralt’s split lip once more, then descended to his neck, burying his nose there. He breathed in deep. He smelt lavender and general cleanliness, courtesy of the bath Geralt had taken early that morning.

Regis withdrew his hand from Geralt’s hair and slid it down his chest, fanning out his fingers and feeling his pectorals through his thin shirt. Geralt hadn’t the bulk of most Witcher’s. His arms and legs did not bulge. He was lither that his peers, sleeker, and seemed even more so as Regis dragged the very tips of his claws over each rib and prompted Geralt to arch again. Regis didn’t chastise him this time. He was too caught up in what he was doing to repeat his earlier instructions. In any case, he liked the way Geralt brought their bodies together, liked being able to feel every little detail of Geralt’s torso before Geralt collapsed back to the ground.

It didn’t take long for him to reach the ties on Geralt’s trousers, which he deftly undid so he could fist a hand around Geralt’s cock. Geralt chocked on his own breath as Regis pulled it free of his underwear. It was thick and red, heavy in Regis’ hand. A nice size. He expected Geralt’s popularity among the ladies had just as much to do with this as it did the fact he was a Witcher. Licking his lips, Regis gave Geralt’s cock one long stroke with his thumb and forefinger and drank in Geralt’s response, filing away every little detail for his later enjoyment. He reveled in every hitched breath and every choked moan, in the way Geralt’s fingers curled and his eyelids fluttered, in the way his hips twitched up into Regis' fingers. He wanted to sear it all into his mind.

The man was  _beautiful_ , he was realising, and being a brat didn’t change that. Perhaps his method of dealing with Geralt thus far had been flawed. Perhaps what Geralt’s needed were not firm words, but a firm hand, and that was something Regis could most certainly and _happily_ provide.

He released Geralt’s cock only briefly to shove down his leggings and unveil his own. It was paler, longer, but thinner, and cool to the touch rather than hot like Geralt’s. He brought their cocks together and curled a hand around them, rolling his hips as he stroked them hard together, their leathery heads periodically jostling against each other. Pre-come smoothed the path. Geralt’s was leaking liberally and Regis knew it wouldn’t be long before he followed suit.

He stroked fast and ruthlessly. His breaths grew laboured, each one of them sucked in against Geralt’s sweaty, bared neck and accompanied by the mans scent. He absentmindedly lathed his tongue over Geralt’s throat and was drawn to the way Geralt’s heart accelerated in response. He was sure the blood was pounding in Geralt’s ears, dizzying and disorientating him, rendering him weak and pliable. He could almost feel the thrum of it when he swiped his tongue over the shell of Geralt’s ear. 

Geralt choked out his name when he came –  _o—oh God, Regis_  – and it was such a pretty sound that Regis followed shortly thereafter. They tensed and shuddered, shifting against each other and sharing each other’s breath, riding out their orgasms. Geralt was first to slump bonelessly to the floor, and after letting his hand fall away from their spent cocks, Regis followed him down, pressing his sweaty forehead to Geralt’s heaving chest. The mans heart was still thudding against his rib cage.

He released Geralt’s wrists and slid his hands up into Geralt’s hair, resting them there and sighing contentedly as the silky strands spilled over his fingers.

That had been wonderful. He’d missed intimacy more than he had realised.

After a long silence, Geralt spoke. “How did I do?” he asked, and he did so with such sincerity that Regis was startled out of his reverie.

Regis rose onto his elbows, stroking idly at Geralt’s scalp. Geralt looked just as sincere as he sounded, gazing at Regis like a drowning man seeking land. It made Regis swallow reflexively. He was just now starting to wonder what he was getting himself into.

“You did,” he said, leaning down to press and open-mouthed kiss to the top of Geralt’s head. “You did  _wonderfully_ , Geralt. You did exactly what I asked.”

“So…” Geralt hesitated. “We will do this again?”

“Yes,” said Regis. He was already imagining future trysts – this time with rope and leather and candle wax. This was far from the first time Regis had taken charge in the bedroom. He had some interesting methods of teaching his partners submission. And submission would no doubt benefit Geralt, in and outside the bedroom. 

“Great.” Geralt’s head dropped back, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. “What now?”

“Now,” said Regis as he rose to his feet, offering a hand to help Geralt stand. “We bathe.”

“Already bathed today,” said Geralt, accepting his proffered hand. Regis dragged him to his feet. Geralt's legs trembled briefly before seeming to adjust to his weight.

“You wish to walk around like this?” asked Regis, gesturing to Geralt’s spent cock and the ejaculation splattered over his stomach.

Geralt didn’t bother to look himself. He sighed and rubbed at an eye with a knuckle. Their activities had taken a lot out of him.

“Fine, a bath it is then.”

He let Regis guide him into the adjacent room without complaint. The tub was empty, but it wouldn’t take long to fill up. They had a fire nearby for heating water.

Regis directed Geralt to sit in the tub and began to prepare it for them. He might have asked Geralt to do it, to see how much compliance he could draw from the man, but he suspected Geralt didn’t even know how to prepare a bath.

Regis slipped into the tub only once it was full, sliding in next to Geralt with a sigh. He didn’t often get to indulge in hot baths. There was a harsh limit on water consumption in the alienage and Regis was careful not to waste what he was allocated on bathing too regularly. He quite liked being able to drink water, even if it wasn’t necessary for his survival. He was not impervious to getting dry mouth.

They bathed in a companionable silence. Geralt offered him soap. He accepted the bar, lathering up his hands and scrubbing it into his skin.

“Regis,” said Geralt, breaking the silence. Regis looked up. “When will we be doing that again?”

Bless his heart, he sounded excited.

Regis offered him a smile, one that showed the tips of his fangs. “Soon, Geralt. I can promise you that.”


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while to update! Real life got a bit hectic for a moment there, and I briefly lost my motivation. I finally got it done, though! Let me know what you think!

Sex proved a more effective method of getting Geralt to perform his duties than he’d expected. Geralt had regularly indulged in sex prior to Regis opening himself up as an option, but according to Geralt, it had all been very standard, vanilla, and what Regis offered was considerably more enjoyable. What he offered, specifically, was the opportunity to _submit_. It was untraversed ground for Geralt, and now that he had experienced it, it was the only sex he wanted to partake in.

To be honest, Regis was flattered by the enthusiasm with which Geralt approached their sexual relationship. Geralt could have had anyone, anyone at all, and he chose to sleep with an old man with a receding hairline? Regis knew he wasn’t attractive, but Geralt would mumble that he was _so handsome_ , _so perfect_ during sex anyway, and that flustered Regis more than any amount of obscenity ever could. He hadn’t been called either of those things since the drunken escapades of his youth.

Through this newfound intimacy, he was finding Geralt had a personality beyond ‘obstinate brat’. He had a great capacity to be kind, wished to help people, and longed for a family – things one would never find out about Geralt in casual conversation. He was a very withdrawn man. Very private. The only time Regis could get him to talk freely was after sex, while he was still recovering from whatever strenuous activity Regis had put him through. Sometimes, if he was particularly lucky, Geralt would even talk on his own initiative.

Seeing this new side of Geralt brought his past behaviour into a new light. Geralt often stopped to chat to palace staff, satiated his fans by giving them every item he had on his back, and returned any food he didn’t want to eat to the kitchen, and in the past Regis had assumed these things were a display of disrespect for Regis’ time, for the queens property, and for the kitchen staffs hard work. He realised now how mistaken he was. Geralt did not do these things maliciously; he did these things because he wished to give back to the people who gave him so much, and giving them food and clothes and his time were the only way he knew how to do that. It was a simple charity, ignorant in its execution, but that Geralt was making an effort at all was something worth acknowledging. 

* * *

“This,” said Geralt slowly. “Is the alienage?”

“Yes,” said Regis as he guided Geralt through its worn cobblestone streets. “Do you still wish to spend the evening at my dwelling? We could return to the palace.”

“No, I just…” Geralt glanced around, his brow pinched. “I’ve never been in here before. Never seen the inside.”

“Truly? You’ve lived here several decades and you’ve never glanced into the alienage?”

Geralt pursed his lips at Regis. “I put a lot of people in here. Seeing them milling about in their own filth wasn’t high on my list of things I wanted to do.”

“So you knew we lived in filth?”

Geralt fell silent. He looked away from Regis.

Regis sighed and rubbed his temples with a palm. He hadn’t meant to upset Geralt. The man could be very sensitive sometimes. “It’s not your fault,” said Regis as they approached his house. It was a considerable step down from Geralt's chambers in the palace. The walls were thin and barely protected one against the elements and the foul smell of rotting wood permeated the air inside and out, but it was the first home Regis had ever owned, and he was happy enough with it.

“And it’s not all that bad,” continued Regis, pushing open the door and welcoming Geralt inside. The floorboards groaned under his feet. “I’ve known vampires to live in caves and crypts. In comparison, this is a luxury.”

“Looks worse than a cave or crypt, if you ask me,” muttered Geralt as he ascended the steps and entered Regis’ one room home. He turned in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. “Are you trying to cultivate a spider farm in here?"

“I haven’t cleaned in a while,” said Regis sheepishly. “I’ve been busy tending to your needs.”

Geralt winced and turned away. 

“Don’t blame me for your decision to live in squalor," muttered Geralt, sitting heavily upon Regis’ bed. He grimaced as he sunk right down to the bed frame and made a noise of disgust. “You sleep on hay? Regis, that is  _disgusting_.”

Regis frowned at Geralt, offended by his comments. It wasn’t his fault they didn’t hand out feather mattresses to residents of the alienage. “If you’re done criticising my décor, you can take off your shirt.”

“We’re not having sex on this,” said Geralt. “I’ve had sex on hay before. Never ends well.”

“If you’re worried about getting hay in your orifices, you needn’t worry. I have furs over the top-“

“We’re not having sex on this,” said Geralt firmly. "I'm getting you a new bed."

Regis pursed his lips. “Please don’t interrupt me, Geralt. It’s very impolite.”

“You're my employee. I’ll interrupt you as much as I damn well please.”

Oh, he was definitely not letting Geralt come today, and he would bring out the birch. Not being able to sit properly for a few days ought to give him time to think about how he spoke to Regis.

“I hope you aren’t trying to be playful.” Regis folded his arms. “Because I am in no mood to be insulted.”

Geralt made no attempt to hide the roll of his eyes. “Dealing with my interruptions is part of the job description.”

“I don’t recall that,” said Regis calmly. “I’m going to give you the opportunity to apologise. As you are still learning proper social behaviour, I feel that is only fair.”

“Don't treat me as though I am a simpleton, Regis."

“Very well,” said Regis, turning to approach his wardrobe, in which he had many a useful implement for petulant young men. “I will treat you as the puerile man you are, then.”

"I've enjoyed that plenty in the past," said Geralt, leaning back on his elbows with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He opened his legs, as though in challenge. "So go right ahead."

Despite his show of arrogance, Geralt was much less argumentative after their session. Lying on the bed on his stomach, rubbing sweat out of his eyes and periodically reaching back to hold his aching ass and shoulders, he was in no position to talk back to Regis. He seemed to have learned his lesson. For the time being, in any case.

Regis cleaned the ejaculation off his furs with a disposable handkerchief. In the end, he hadn’t been able to deny a moaning, red-faced Geralt his satisfaction; his resolve had crumbled the moment he’d had Geralt writhing beneath him. The man was too beautiful for his own good, and for Regis’ own good especially.

He retrieved some soothing cream from a far-back corner of his wardrobe and sat down next to Geralt to rub it into his skin. Geralt might have had a high pain tolerance, but that didn’t mean Regis would leave his abrasions unattended. 

When Geralt moaned softly at the contact, Regis smiled and leaned down to press a kiss into his dishevelled hair.

“Perhaps next time you’ll remember to hold your tongue,” he said amiably.

Geralt cast him a glare. A weak glare, granted. Their sessions always took a lot out of him. “I had perfectly reasonable comments,” he said, leaning his face into his forearms.

“Perhaps you did, but you chose to express them with all the tact of a three-year-old.” Regis rubbed soothing circles into the painfully red swell of his ass. The flesh radiated heat. “In any case, you seemed to enjoy yourself. I recall quite a bit of moaning.”

Geralt shrugged. “Not the issue. How am I to attend the queens gatherings like this? I won’t be able to sit properly.”

“That was the point,” said Regis, amused. “You can think about how you could have better worded your complaints while struggling to sit still in your chair.” He applied more cream to Geralt’s shoulders, which were crisscrossed with thin pink lines. He’d given him a strike there whenever Geralt had abandoned his position, and he had done so  _numerous_  times. For someone with a high pain threshold, Geralt certainly found it difficult to obey commands under mild duress.

Geralt leaned into his massaging hand. The cream contained Celandine, which made it a painkiller of the fast-acting variety. It must have felt delightful on his inflamed skin.

He would have to go easy on Geralt during their next session, regardless of how he acted in between. He wanted to make sure these finished healing. Besides which, he had yet to make use of a blindfold and cock ring, and it was about time he did. If he was feeling particularly adventurous, he might even try some sounding.

He briefly drew his hand to the nape of Geralt’s neck to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair. It would need to be brushed before he went anywhere. A Witcher couldn’t look this unsightly in public.

“I know you have the capacity to be a good man,” he murmured. “You just need a bit of a push in the right direction.”

Geralt cast him a fleeting look, his brows drawn, before burying his face back into his arms. “Do you recall my mentioning getting you a new bed?” asked Geralt.

Regis paused his ministrations. “I do, yes. I assumed you were saying so to mock me.”

“Not entirely wrong there,” admitted Geralt. “But I do intend to get you a new bed. And don’t try to be modest and insist ‘I can’t do this for you’. I can, and I will.”

Regis opened his mouth, and then closed it again, unsure of what to say. This was a surprising show of philanthropy. He didn't know how to react. 

“Geralt, I…” It took him a few moments to find what words he wanted to speak. “I’m not sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

Geralt was able to predict what he was going to say next. “Save it, Regis. I’m not doing this because we’re fucking. You aren’t taking advantage.”

“Geralt…”

“Don’t, Regis. You’ve worked with me for over half a year for pennies. I’m going to do this for you.”

Well, that was hard to argue with. Regis didn’t particularly want to argue with it, either. He quite enjoyed the idea of a new bed. His current one was serviceable enough, but he did periodically wake up with muscle aches due to the discrepancy in the mattress’ height.

“Thank you, Geralt,” said Regis, sliding close so he could press a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt turned and pulled him into a proper kiss. “Almost makes me regret using the birch on you,” he mumbled into his mouth.

“I don’t,” Geralt said between hungry, groping kisses. “Saw stars when I orgasmed.”

Talented as he was, Regis had never been told  _that_  before. He was flattered. _And_ determined to provide Geralt with a repeat performance.

They kissed lazily upon the bed until Geralt’s injuries had cooled enough to make putting clothes on possible. He combed Geralt’s hair before they left and continued to fiddle with Geralt’s hair-tie as they stepped out into the street. On their past the neighbouring houses, he spotted Dettlaff tending to the little flower garden he had growing on a wooden slat (there was nowhere else in the alienage with enough room for even a small garden) and waved to him. Dettlaff waved back, then proceeded to unabashedly stare at Geralt until Geralt turned away.

“You have odd friends,” said Geralt, heading deeper into the alienage. Dettlaff watched him walk past.

“As do you,” said Regis. He slid a hand to the small of Geralt’s back and attempted to guide him to the exit gate, but Geralt persisted in going the wrong way. “Geralt,” said Regis, stepping in front of him to stop him in his path. “You’re heading deeper into the alienage. I imagine that isn’t something you want to do.”

Geralt raised a hand, perhaps to push him aside, but seemed to think better of it when Regis narrowed his eyes. “That is exactly what I want to do,” said Geralt, tucking his hand instead into a pocket. “Haven’t seen the alienage before. I want to look.”

“Why ever would you want to do that?” asked Regis incredulously. He made a vague gesture to the surrounding filth and poverty. “This isn’t exactly a scenic little town, Geralt. Unless you enjoy the sight of misery, there’s nothing worth looking at, and I’m sure the people here don’t want you gawking at their situation either.”

“Not going to gawk.” Geralt hunched his shoulders, clearly defensive. “I want to see how they’re living.”

Regis massaged his temples. Geralt might not have been the most socially aware of people, but he hadn’t expected _this_ from him. And just when he’d started to think better of the man.

“Is this not a good enough vantage point for you?” he asked, and he couldn’t help the aggressive edge in his voice. “Do you wish to see the malnourished children? A corpse in the street, perhaps?”

Geralt looked about ready to start rubbing his own temples. “No, I  _don’t_. I don’t want to see that.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “But I  _will,_  because I put them here, and it never occurred to me to look back at my handiwork. I feel shit about that. Now, may we continue, or do you wish to continue lecturing me?”

Regis didn’t have a retort for that. He closed his mouth, somewhat ashamed of his anger. He’d jumped to conclusions. He knew better than to do that, but his living situation and the living situation of his brethren was such a sore point that it was hard not to get worked up, particularly when talking to someone of noble origin.

“I lost my temper,” he said, head bowed. “I apologise.”

“Don’t. It isn’t necessary.” Geralt resumed walking and Regis didn’t try to stop him this time. “Let’s just get moving.”

Regis hurried to walk at his side. He spoke again as they passed a Rock Troll thumping his way through the street on a stump.

“Geralt,” said Regis. “If I may ask, why torture yourself like this?”

“Why not?” Geralt shrugged. “I’m clearly a masochist.”

“While I generally enjoy your witticisms, provided they aren’t of the malicious variety, I don’t believe this is an appropriate time for jokes.”

“Fine,” said Geralt. “I'm trying to do the right thing, which should please you. You aren’t going to get much more than that.”

“Very well, I will leave it at that.” Perhaps at a later date Geralt would be more forthcoming.

They walked slowly through the alienage. It was a small place, with only a small population of sapient monsters. Rock trolls, succubuses, vampires and the like; nothing too dangerous, and those who were dangerous had their claws clipped by a mage. There were various methods one could use to smother a monster’s innate abilities, and none were enjoyable. Regis knew first hand what it was like to undergo the various procedures, having been the first vampire introduced to the the alienage (approximately two hundred years ago now). The procedure for dopplers, he’d heard, was the most unpleasant, and involved the doppler being given an injury to make them easily identifiable.

The most notable feature of the alienage were the walls, which were thick stone and made it impossible to see the city beyond. There was only one exit, and that was the gate, made with Mahakam iron and coated in a thick layer of silver. Silver was a popular metal in the alienage. It was in the ground, in the wood, sometimes in the very air, and it made daily life for many a painful experience. Regis was immune, for the most part, but he felt for the monsters that weren’t.

All the buildings in the alienage were compact and built directly next to each other to provide more room for additional houses. There was still a shortage of available rooms, however, and it wasn’t uncommon for Rock Trolls and the like to sleep outside. The buildings were made of wood, and not particularly high-quality wood at that. He expected some buildings would need to be rebuilt in a few years, though it would probably be the residents themselves that were made to build them this time, and without compensation.

There was a small market in the alienage where the more privileged of residents were permitted to sell their goods. It was just food, furs and the like. Basic necessities. There was little money to be made in selling to people of the alienage, but if they weren’t selling, those vulnerable in the alienage – the children and unemployed that relied on their peers’ charity – would have to go without, and so they kept their stalls open every day from seven until ten before heading home.

Dudu happened to be one such peddler and he grinned upon seeing Regis. “Regis, my friend! How- oh.” His one good eye bulged at the sight of Geralt and he glanced about, clearly trying to determine the best route of escape.

“It’s alright, Dudu,” said Regis, raising a placating hand. “The Witcher isn’t here on work.”

Dudu regarded Geralt with suspicion. “Why’s he here, then?”

“Looking around,” offered Geralt. 

“You’re looking around,” said Dudu slowly, uncomprehendingly, looking around himself like he might spot something that would make voluntarily stepping into the alienage a worthwhile activity. “At… at what, exactly?” He tacked on a quick, “If it’s okay to ask,” like he was expecting Geralt to lash out at any moment.

“Just looking,” said Geralt, stony faced. Regis could tell he wasn’t enjoying the conversation by the rigid way he held himself. It was uncomfortable to speak to someone who was afraid of you. Regis knew that firsthand. Even now, after having lived in Rivia for two centuries, humans were still afraid of him, and they made little effort to hide that fact.

“Oh,” said Dudu, frowning. “Well, uh… have a good time, I guess?”

“Dudu,” said Geralt, his voice almost a growl, which made Dudu jump. “Is there any reason in particular you’re still using Biberveldt’s skin?”

Dudu rubbed his neck, visibly sweating. “It’s – it’s as good a form as any, right? And he likes it. I’m employed by him, now. He calls me his cousin.”

“He didn’t seem very endeared to you when I last saw him.”

“The profits changed his mind,” mumbled Dudu, offering him a wavering smile.

Geralt stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I liked the jackets you brought in a while back. Any chance of getting them back in stock?”

“Oh, er..." It took Dudu a moment to find his voice, blinking in stupefaction. "I'll be sure to mention that to him! I’ll put in an order, j-just for you!”

“Dudu,” said Regis. “Please calm down. Geralt isn’t going to hurt you.”

Dudu looked abashed and ducked his head. “Sorry. It’s just not every day you get a Witcher in here, and this happens to be the one that captured me.” He raised his one good eye back to Geralt. “You look a bit out of place.”

“Certainly feel it too,” said Geralt. “Don’t think I’ve seen so many stink-eyes in one place before.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re used to people throwing themselves at your feet.” Dudu chuckled. “It’s nothing personal – well, it might be for some, actually, but Witcher’s coming into alienages is never a good thing.”

“We’ve already done our job,” said Geralt. “The rest is usually the job of mages. Don’t see why we would _need_ to come back.”

“For culling’s,” said Dudu, and Geralt showed not a hint of recognition. After a pause, he spoke again. “You know, getting rid of monsters that don’t conform, emptying the alienage, that sort of thing.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched into a frown. He looked at Regis, as though Regis should be as confused as he was. Regis, of course, was not; he had lived in the alienage for too long not to know everything that went on in it and in other alienage’s. 

“If the queen – or other reigning body feels the monsters are becoming a danger, they have the right to kill them,” explained Regis. “This has never happened here, fortunately.”

“It happened in Nilfgaard, though,” said Dudu with a shiver. “With the vampires.They don’t have vampires there anymore. Not a single one. Or, at least, that’s what they claim. I doubt they managed to get all the higher ones."

Regis watched Geralt process this information, his face growing steadily more strained. Finally, having finished letting the words sink in, Geralt turned from Dudu. “It’s about time we left. See you in the market, Dudu.”

“Er, yes.” Dudu calmed at seeing Geralt’s back. “See you then.”

Regis followed when Geralt began to walk. He didn’t say anything. He wanted to leave Geralt to think about what he had witnessed today, to let him develop his own opinions without influence. After what he had witnessed today, he trusted Geralt to come to the right conclusion.

* * *

His relationship with Geralt steadily grew to transcend that of employee and employer. The sex contributed to the development of a tentative friendship, but it was Geralt making a genuine effort to correct his behaviour that did the bulk of the work. If he acted out too much, Regis wouldn't indulge Geralt. He wouldn't touch him, nor engage him in friendly conversation, and it never took Geralt long to fix what he had done wrong when he realised he'd overstepped a line. In addition to that, Geralt had started to correct his behaviour with _real_ repentance rather than out of obligation, so hurting Regis must have no longer been a trifle for him. 

Who would have thought sex could lead to this? Regis had hoped for some improvement, but this was leaps and bounds beyond what he had been anticipating. He had been right to assume Geralt had potential, because this sort of change certainly couldn't have happened without some preexisting decency. Given a few more months, he might even place Geralt within his immediate circle of friends. 

The job became less of a slog as their relationship progressed. Geralt still dragged his feet when it came to fulfilling some obligations, but he had ceased taking his frustration out on Regis and would attend most things willingly provided Regis reminded him there would be a reward at the end. On the odd occasion, Regis wouldn't have to mention a reward, nor give him one, and Regis would have liked to assume this was because Geralt was finally seeing the value in his contributions, but Geralt wasn't forthcoming when asked about his motivations. The man was still reticent and it would take more than a few months of being his friend before he was comfortable enough around Regis to talk freely.

It was almost funny that _sex_ came easier to Geralt than _talking_. Funny, but also terribly sad. Along with everything else, he was starting to see that being a Witcher wasn't the idyllic life he'd always thought of it as. Still better than living in the alienage, certainly, but it wasn't without its tribulations.

Geralt hadn't chosen life as a witcher, and given the opportunity, Regis didn't doubt he would have sacrificed all the power and glory for the simple pleasure of having a family. He would have been much more content as a nobleman or peasant. At the end of the day, though, he would never be either of those things, just like Regis would never be human no matter how many times he'd wished for it while in the dungeons. Pleading and crying and hoping would not change the hand they had been dealt. They were what they were and they had to shake off their misgivings and learn to be okay with that, because if they didn't, they would self-destruct. They would tear themselves apart in their grief and desperation, and Regis felt Geralt had narrowly missed doing just that. If Regis hadn't intervened when he did, the Queen very well may have had a dead Witcher on her hands.

But he had intervened, and Geralt was getting better by the day. Perhaps in the far off future, he would realise he didn't have to create a family to have one. He had his brethren, Vesemir, Nenneke, Regis... he could be _happy_ , if he let himself.

* * *

Geralt’s birthday had arrived and Regis had planned out a special evening for him. Now, standing in Geralt’s bedroom, waiting for Geralt to finish his bath, he was starting to wonder if he should have gone for something more traditional; a dinner with wine and flowers rather than a session involving a riding crop, rope, and a few toys he’d collected specifically for tonight. He had done this plenty of times in the past, for people much closer to him than Geralt, and yet the idea that Geralt might not enjoy himself to the extent that Regis wanted him to troubled him. He wanted this to be a worthy birthday gift.

There was no reason he should be worried. Geralt expressed enthusiasm for almost all the things Regis suggested (ones that weren’t deliberate punishment, in any case), but knowing that didn’t put him at ease. While vampires didn’t have birthdays, nor any equivalent, he knew they were deeply important to humans and required great fanfare. If Geralt didn’t enjoy this, it could potentially ruin the entire day. Perhaps the dinner really had been the right way to go. Or perhaps even a more simplistic session, with the cock ring and blindfold Geralt had become so fond of.

Just to give himself something to do, he peeled the bed covers back and tucked them into the end of the mattress, out of the way, then began fiddling with the items he had laid out on the bedside table. Geralt would recognise the rope, specially prepared with a wet treatment, but it was the only item among the ones Regis had set out that he would recognise from previous sessions. The collar, several phallus’, flasks of various different types of liquids, and riding crop were new. He would have to watch Geralt carefully for his response to the sight of them and decide whether or not they should proceed.

He liked to think he was good enough at this that Geralt would enjoy it regardless of what he thought of Regis’ selections. Regis had been doing this for a very long time, after all, and considered himself something of an expert in deviancy. But it still wasn’t something he wanted to risk, especially on what was a special day for Geralt. And besides, Geralt’s comfort was important to him, as all his partners comfort was. He never did anything unless he knew that it was wanted.

He absentmindedly uncorked a flask of oil, making sure it was the right temperature.

If Geralt didn’t approve of Regis’ layout, he could always introduce the items one at a time at a later date. Gently and with care, of course. If he didn’t enjoy them together, he would probably enjoy them individually. Regis knew first hand just how enjoyable some could be (he’d been alive for over four hundred years and that had given him plenty of time to experiment and decide upon what he liked best).

It was a relief when he finally heard Geralt rise out of the tub. He quickly withdrew his fingers from the oil and placed it back on the bedside table, waiting at the foot of the bed with his hands crossed behind him. 

Geralt stepped out with dripping hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. It was a stunning sight. Regis gave no indication of this, however, and gestured for Geralt to come closer.

“Geralt,” he said, pointing to the beside table. “I’ve laid out some items. I’d like you to have a look.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. He squeezed some water out of his hair before stepping up to the bedside table. Examining the items laid out on it, his expression was impassive, for a long moment, and then grew confused. Regis held his breath, which was an odd thing to do considering he didn’t even need to  _breathe_  to subsist. He watched Geralt’s face with rapt attention.

He’d almost lost hope when Geralt finally, fleetingly smiled.

“Looks like you raided the dungeon,” said Geralt as he fiddled with the riding crop. “Like this more than the birch. Looks soft.”

“I’m sure you won’t be thinking that when I use it on you.” Regis gestured to the bed. “Remove your towel and sit.”

Geralt did as he was told, letting the towel pool to the floor and seating himself on the edge of the mattress. Everything was going well, thus far. Regis’ initial unease felt foolish, in retrospect. He’d worked himself up for nothing. It was dripping away now, disappearing as Regis fell into his role as Geralt's dom.

“I have some rules for tonight,” said Regis.

“Oh?” Geralt looked more amused than anything else. “Are they going to be different from the usual rules?”

“Before I get into them,” said Regis, ignoring his question. “I want to remind you that I will stop what I am doing the moment you ask me to. I have no intention or desire to push you beyond what you can tolerate, so you only need say the word to end the scene. Or push me away, should your mouth be occupied. What we’re doing tonight is fairly intense, so I want to make that clear.”

Geralt nodded in understanding.

Regis continued. “As for rules, I prefer to keep things simple, so first, you are to refer to me as sir. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Geralt had certainly taken to that quick. Regis was pleased. “I’d also like you to speak only when spoken to. Unless, of course, you wish to stop. I believe it will do you some good to voluntarily hold your tongue.”

Geralt snorted softly, but said nothing.

Regis strode over to his tools and drew the rope into his hands. The water treatment had rendered it nice and soft, easy on the skin. “Next, you aren’t to stimulate yourself in any manner.  _I_ will be doing that for you.”

Despite looking somewhat disappointed, Geralt shrugged and said, “Yes, sir.”

Regis expected that one to be tough for him.

He coiled one end of the rope around his hand and stepped closer to Geralt. “Finally, when I ask you to tell me how you’re feeling, you are to do so promptly, and without reservation. I want to hear how you’re feeling every step through this.”

With some reluctance, Geralt nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Regis. “Now, stand and turn around.”

After a pause, perhaps trying to guess what Regis would be doing with the rope, Geralt stood and did as Regis instructed. Regis carefully grabbed his forearms and pulled them behind Geralt’s back, to Geralt’s mid-section. He crossed them at the wrist and began to tie them in place. He was neither tight, nor loose with the rope. He didn’t want to pull it to the point of constricting blood circulation. That would be painful to the point of blotting out any of the other activities he had arranged for the evening.

“This is a rope art performed by Zerrikanian’s. Its name is ‘Kinbaku-bi’, which, when translated to common, means ‘the beauty of tight binding’.” With Geralt’s wrists done, Regis brought the rope to Geralt’s shoulder, beside his neck, and turned Geralt around to tuck it down under Geralt’s pecs. “I think you’ll quite enjoy it. What do you think, Geralt?”

“Have no idea, sir.”

“Proper grammar, Geralt. Use pronouns.”

“I have no idea, sir.”

Regis coiled the rope around Geralt’s midsection, feeling the mans chest heave under the growing pressure. He was going to look sublime when this was done. He moved onto Geralt’s opposite shoulder, sliding the rope into place and wrapping it around the tight cable he’d created under Geralt’s pectorals, watching with pleasure as Geralt squirmed and twitched his fingers. He moved in a manner that suggested he wanted to test the tightness of the ropes and didn’t get far with that at all. Soft and considerate as Regis’ binding was, it was still firm enough to prevent escape.

He drew a v down the middle of Geralt’s chest with the rope, then proceeded to the crosshatching. Geralt watched with interest as his nimble fingers worked. He manoeuvred the rope into position, all while taking care to touch Geralt’s skin as liberally as possible. He could tell the touching, slight as it was, was having an effect on Geralt, and he smiled to himself when Geralt gasped upon his fingers brushing over a dusty pink nipple.

So soon into the session and it looked like Geralt’s nerves were already on fire. A pleasant accomplishment.

“Slow, deep breaths, Geralt,” said Regis, noticing that his breathing had started to accelerate.

“Y-yes, sir,” Geralt stuttered out.

“Slow, deep breaths… yes… good.” He resumed applying the rope, watching Geralt’s face carefully for any sign of discomfort. A deep dusting of pink had risen to his cheekbones. “This isn’t too tight, is it?”

“No, it’s… good,” said Geralt, sounding vague and distant. “Sir,” he added, blinking blearily at Regis.

Regis brought his fingers to Geralt’s neck. His pulse was thudding away as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. When he looked down, he saw Geralt’s cock hard and red. That must have been where all the blood was vacating to.

He finished tying at Geralt’s back, gave his work a once over, and then he guided Geralt into sitting back on the edge of the bed. He retreated a step so he could better appreciate how Geralt looked.

_Beautiful_.

There was still water on him, glistening on his skin and dripping off his hair, soaking into the rope, and it made him look absolutely beautiful. He reached down to run a hand through Geralt’s hair, slowly and with affection. Geralt leaned into his touch, his exquisite eyes wide and tracking Regis’ every movement.

The ropes had been a very good idea.

He returned to the bedside table and took the collar. It was nice thick leather, shiny from the polish Regis had worked into it. He had installed wolf fur on the inside to ensure it wouldn’t chafe and worn down any hard edges with sandpaper. 

“Now,” said Regis, bringing the collar into view. “Display your neck for me.”

Geralt did so immediately, tilting his head back to expose the pale stretch of his throat. It was such an arousing sight that Regis had to pause and collect himself. Behind the folds of his coat, his trousers were no doubt tenting.

He slid the leather around Geralt’s throat, buckling it at the back. The front of the collar had a ring to which one could attach a lead. For another day, perhaps.

He checked that it wasn’t too tight by slipping two fingers beneath it before withdrawing. Geralt was shifting, struggling to get a look at it. Regis, fortunately, had moved his mirror nearby for this exact purpose. He wrapped a hand around one of Geralt’s biceps and guided him across the room, to Geralt’s full-body mirror, and let him get a good eyeful of himself trussed up and collared. He stood behind him, his back flush to Geralt’s, his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, and appreciated the sight alongside him.

“You’re perfect,” Regis murmured as he dragged a hand up Geralt’s naked belly, dipping his fingers into the crevices of his abs. "Do you like the collar?"

He heard Geralt swallow, heard the heavy thud of his heart. He placed his hand over it and imagined that it was safely nestled in his palm.

"Yes," murmured Geralt. 

"Good, because it is a gift." Regis dragged his fingers over the soft leather. "I made it by hand. Just for you."

Geralt leaned back against him. Being trusted like this, with Geralt’s well-being, was a grand reward.

“Tell me how you feel,” he instructed softly.

He saw Geralt lick his lips. “Tight, constricted. Not unpleasantly so. Aroused.”

“Anything else?”

A breath. Geralt's voice dropped to a whisper. “Vulnerable.”

Regis applied a kiss to his warm skin. “Ready to resume?”

“Yes, sir.”

He placed a pillow on the floor. Guiding Geralt into kneeling on it, he returned to the bed and retrieved his next implement – the riding crop. He wanted to give Geralt’s skin a nice red tinge before using any of the concoctions on him. It would enhance their effect.

He swiped his hand briefly through Geralt’s hair, simply to watch him lean into it, before lowering the crop and sliding the end up Geralt’s jutting cock. Geralt audibly swallowed. The contact must have been like an electric current to him.

“Twenty,” said Regis, and Geralt’s head jerked up. He stroked Geralt’s cock a little more firmly, swirling the end of the crop over the head. “Take twenty strikes without squirming,” he continued. “And you’ll be rewarded.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Regis slid the crop up his abdomen, searching for an appropriate place to apply a welt. He would do his thighs, back, and what little of his chest he could reach through the ropes. While he was sure Geralt could take a few on his belly, that held the risk of bruising organs, and he cared about Geralt much too much to do such a thing.

He drew the crop back. Geralt’s head dropped heavily between his shoulders when the first welt rose on his left thigh, pink and thin. A little gasp squeezed its way out of Geralt’s throat. Despite all this, he remained in place, not so much as trembling. Regis stroked Geralt’s shoulder, encouraging and praising, before he raised the crop again.

The next strike prompted Geralt to shut his eyes. His cock moved between his legs as another pink line rose on his thigh, directly across from the other one. There was no doubt he was enjoying this. Regis found himself affected in much the same way, his leggings becoming uncomfortably tight. It was a struggle not to fast-track and entered the next  _mutually_  pleasurable stage of the scene.

Readjusting his grip on his implement, he circled around to Geralt’s opposite side and applied two quick strokes to Geralt’s right thigh, then one more over Geralt’s clavicle. Geralt choked out a groan after the final one. He was breathing fast, but shallowly, and he swayed ever so slightly upon the pillow. Already he was losing control.

Regis gently cupped a hand under Geralt’s jaw and tilted his head up, examining Geralt’s dilated pupils. They were wider than he’d ever seen them, almost blotting out the gold. He ran his fingers over Geralt’s cheek and up into Geralt’s hair in a soothing fashion, noting how warm his skin was.  

“Breathe properly, Geralt,” instructed Regis gently, bringing Geralt’s forehead to rest on his hip while he waited for the man to recover. “Are you alright?”

“More disorientated than normal,” Geralt mumbled, the tip of his nose jostling Regis’ leggings. Regis didn’t chastise him for forgetting the ‘sir’. This wasn’t the time.

“That’s the endorphin rush. Deep breaths, Geralt. Breathe through it.”

“Are- are we going to stop?”

“No. You aren’t in any danger.” Regis pushed Geralt’s water-slick hair back, dragging his nails lightly over Geralt’s scalp. The sensation must have felt good, because Geralt practically  _purred_. “That’s it, deep breaths… good… now, I’m going to do two more on each thigh, then four on to your back. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes, sir,” Geralt breathed, making no attempt to smother the eagerness in his voice.

Regis extended him a fond sort of smile before stepping back to let Geralt right himself on his pillow. He positioned the crop, observing the way Geralt’s shoulders tensed, his eyes opening to stare down at the leather implement. He teased it along Geralt’s ball sack before swinging it down over the sensitive inside of Geralt’s right thigh. The man jerked ever so slightly, but maintained position. The next welt prompted him to hold his breath, and Regis waited until he had let that breath barrel out before moving back to his left thigh.

He took the next strikes exceedingly well, responding with little more than a curl of his hands and a soft gasp. The skin on his thigh rose within seconds. Two lovely pink lines. Regis leaned down to lightly brush his fingers over them before moving on to Geralt’s back. Geralt hunched forward in preparation for what was to come.

“You’re doing so well,” Regis murmured as he positioned the implement. Having been on the end of this in his youth, he knew what Geralt must be experiencing right now: full-body warmth, fuzziness, accelerated breathing, and arousal as sharp as a shock of electricity. That Geralt jumped when he simply laid the crop over his shoulders made how deeply the experience was affecting him all the more apparent.

Geralt shook as Regis struck his shoulders, his cock jumping. He did it again lower down Geralt’s back, then pushed him forward by the nape of his neck and laid the final two over the seat of his ass. Geralt wasn’t able to stifle a yelp.

“That’s thirteen,” he said, pressing Geralt down further, down until his chin scraped the floor. “Ass up and maintain position. Four more, and the rest will go on your chest.”

Geralt practically whimpered at that announcement.

The pale slope of Geralt’s ass was already turning red. It was about to become even more so. He was slow about applying the crop so he could enjoy the sight of Geralt shuddering upon the floor, his face flushed and mouth open, releasing panting breaths. Each time the crop came down, he rocked forward, his thighs tensing with the effort it took to otherwise remain still. He was almost tempted to add just one more strike when he was done, simply to watch Geralt’s thigh’s tense and the color rise to his trembling skin, but he had said four, and he would stick to four.

Regis brought Geralt back onto his knees by tapping his chin with his foot. Slowly and with difficulty, Geralt sat back on his thighs. He hissed under his breath. The pain must have been exquisite.

Regis slid the crop under Geralt’s chin, turning his head until their eyes met.

“Three more,” said Regis, gently pressing Geralt into an arch. He had to take a moment to appreciate Geralt before he continued. He had the sort of physique that took years to acquire, and his straining muscles looked even more stunning with little pink welts rising on them. Regis couldn't have asked for a better canvas.

Geralt shuddered as Regis brought the implement down on his pectorals. Once, twice, three times, and his chest was heaving, drawing in hungry breaths. Regis touched the side of the crop to Geralt’s cock just to see how he would respond and swallowed thickly as Geralt let out a low, wanton groan and thrust towards it.

“Didn’t I say not to squirm?” he asked, giving Geralt’s hip a tap.

“A-already finished the strokes, sir,” Geralt forced out, looking up at Regis through half-lidded eyes.

“Cheeky.”

He set the crop aside and reached down to guide Geralt to his feet. The man stood with some difficulty, shivering and swaying, so deep in submission that bodily control was abandoning him. Regis had to half-carry him over to the bed. He laid Geralt out on the mattress, letting him catch his breath while he sorted through the various concoctions he had prepared. Some inflicted pain, others pleasure. They would try all three before the night was through.

He selected a warming substance and uncorked it, bringing the flask to the Geralt’s bedside. Geralt watched him blearily as he swirled the liquid with a finger.

“How are you feeling, Geralt?”

“Like… like I just got fucking hit with a crop, sir,” he slurred, offering a sloppy smile. “It’s good… real good…”

“I’m glad.” Regis brought his sullied finger to Geralt’s thigh and lightly traced it over one of the marks. Geralt jerked in place, hissing.

“What is that, sir?” he asked, biting his lip as Regis moved to apply more.

“Something that will start feeling very nice shortly.”

Upon covering the last mark, he started to massage the concoction into Geralt’s thigh with a palm, turning Geralt’s skin slick and shiny. He did the same thing to the opposite leg before retreating to retrieve another concoction. While he was at the bedside table, sorting through his flasks, he watched Geralt out of the corner of the eye, watched while he moved all his limbs and curled his toes and bit his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Oh, God… fuck…”

“How does it feel?” he asked, intrigued. He’d only used the oil on the inside of an elbow, just to check that it wasn’t too strong. He didn’t know how it would feel on inflamed skin.

“Hot.” Geralt pulled his legs up, heels digging into the mattress. “Prickly,” he added breathlessly.

Regis poured his next concoction into a palm. It chilled his skin. He applied his hand to Geralt’s chest and massaged the liquid into his skin, into his marks, just as he had done with his thighs. It didn’t take long for it to have an effect on Geralt. He threw back his head and whimpered. The conflicting sensations must have been playing havoc with his senses.

“You’ll be familiar with this one,” said Regis. “Can you tell me what the primary ingredient is?”

“H-Hornwort, sir.”

“Correct.”

He flicked a pointed nail over a nipple, delighting in the way Geralt jolted.

There was just one more concoction left, and this was one going somewhere much more sensitive than either Geralt’s thighs or chest. He drew away from the writhing Geralt to retrieve the appropriate flask, pouring this one into his opposite hand, so to avoid getting any of the previous liquid on Geralt’s intimates. He didn’t wait until Geralt had calmed before giving Geralt's cock one long, pleasurable stroke. The man jerked hard enough to make the whole bed move, and Regis grinned, constricting his fingers around Geralt’s swelling arousal. He’d barely touched it and already it was beading with pre-come.

“How does that feel?”

“O-oh fuck…”

He would accept that as a response. Geralt didn’t look to be in any state of mind to offer him something more detailed.

He slid a knee onto the mattress and stroked hard at Geralt’s cock, his thumb periodically rubbing Geralt’s frenulum. His other hand roamed over Geralt’s body, fondling with the rope and scraping over Geralt’s ribs, lighting up every nerve it touched. He knew by the way Geralt was clenching and rolling his hips that he was close to climax.

While Geralt was still arched into the air, Regis took it as an opportunity to position himself between Geralt’s thighs, pushing Geralt's legs over his shoulders and removing his own hard, red cock from his leggings. He spread what concoction was left on his hand over his arousal before pressing smoothly in, right up to the hilt, prompting Geralt to let out a cry that wavered, broke, and petered out as Regis began to move.

The way Geralt’s muscles tensed and shifted was hypnotising. Regis ran his palms up Geralt’s chest as he thrust, feeling every dip and crevice, digging his fingers into particularly vulnerable areas. Geralt had just enough presence of mind to move into his exploring hands, but even then, it was with visible difficulty. He had squeezed his eyes shut, so the only thing he had to guide him was mindless, animalistic sensation.

When he reached Geralt’s midsection, he twisted his fingers into the ropes, using them to pull Geralt into each thrust, to drive deeper and reach that part inside Geralt that would make him  _sing_. And sing he did, once he had recovered his voice.

“Oh f-fuck, fuck, Regis-!”

Geralt's hands twisted uselessly behind him, scrambling for a purchase that he couldn’t find. He mindlessly pushed into every thrust. The average person might have found it difficult to adjust to Regis’ girth, but not Geralt, evidently, who was fucking himself on Regis’ cock as much as Regis was fucking him. Both of them were hot and sweating; even Regis, who had little body heat to speak of. It must have been Geralt’s seeping into him. There was certainly enough heat radiation off Geralt that he could have functioned as a perfectly serviceable heater.

He saw Geralt’s eyes roll back and quickly wrapped a hand around Geralt's cock, stroking it as Geralt emptied himself onto his abdomen and chest. He continued stoking until Geralt had slumped back to the mattress, then slowly laid down beside him, still nestled deep inside. He hadn’t come, but that was alright; that hadn’t been the point of their evening together.

Geralt panted and shivered. Regis held him close, bringing him onto his side so he could tuck Geralt under his chin. The ropes would need to be removed soon; he didn’t want them to chafe, but right now, both of them needed a moment to catch their breath. That had most definitely been their most intense session yet. It was going to be hard to top.

“How was that?” he asked, speaking into the sweaty mop of Geralt’s head.

There was a long silence before Geralt answered. “Think I just emptied a week’s worth of ejaculation onto myself.”

Regis chuckled. “And you  _just_  had a bath.” He glanced to the bedside table, where the phallus's remained untouched. "I was going to leave one of those in you, but _this_ is much nicer."

"Hm?" Geralt followed his line of sight. "Oh, those. Well..." He tilted his head up, grinning roguishly at Regis. "There's always later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> [Beautiful art](https://ofeliathemoth.tumblr.com/post/177028528398/itspusspeepers-you-know-what-you-did-d) made by Ms-mothball/Ofeliathemoth on Tumblr!


	4. Part Four

People of Regis’ status weren’t permitted to sit during meetings. They had to stand at the back, behind their employer, and wait.

This, however, did not stop Geralt from asking Regis to take the seat next to him during a meeting with several vacant chairs.

“What, the vampire?” asked one of attendees, a knight Regis couldn’t recall the name of. His bushy moustache twitched in disbelief. “I don't wish to be rude, Master Witcher, but vampires do not sit at our table. What a ridiculous notion.”

“Why should he stand when we have free seats?” Geralt made a vague gesture to the numerous empty chairs. “These always drag on for hours. Don’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to rest his legs.”

“Because it’s like inviting a pet to sit on the furniture, Geralt,” piqued up a young woman. Regis knew her name to be Jeanna. Her cherry-red lips were pressed tight together in disapproval. “It’s just not done.”

Geralt dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Well, it’s going to be done today. Regis, sit down.”

“I’m not sure that is a good idea,” said Regis, giving the hostile faces of Geralt's companions a pointed look.

“It’s fine. Ignore them.”

"I'm really quite alright with standing-"

" _Sit down_ , Regis," said Geralt, casting an exasperated look over his shoulder.

Regis eyed Queen Meve, who frowned but did not protest as he approached the table and took the chair next to Geralt. He sat straight, but not tense. He’d lived far too long to be unsettled by the hatred of humans.

“Surely you don’t condone this, my queen?” asked the knight. He regarded Regis with a look of disdain. “A vampire sitting at the table – it’s bad enough we accept them in our town, but to have them sitting among people of such high esteem? Why, I-“

“Be quiet, Norrington,” interrupted Queen Meve, and none too happily at that. Her voice commanded everyone’s attention, and suddenly Regis was drawn out of the spotlight. “You forget that a Witcher’s will is paramount to the will of the Gods, and if he wishes his vampire to sit at the table, then sit at the table they shall. Let us proceed with the talk.”

Norrington opened his mouth, produced a few feeble spluttering sounds, and then closed it again. Whatever argument he had, it was not something he was willing to state before a disapproving Queen. Nor did anyone else try to speak in his stead.

The meeting continued. Regis didn’t participate; he doubted he would be able to get away with that much, but he did discreetly nod along to things he agreed with and offer the occasional encouraging smile to Geralt. Geralt, for his part, made a few comments on the arena and stated that they ought to do more trading with Mahakam, then remained silent for the rest of the discussion. He never did have much to say during these things. Mostly he looked bored, and sometimes Regis even caught him picking at a fingernail.

The knight and woman shot him dirty glares on the way out. To sit with a vampire must have been a grand insult to them, and the thought that they would be stewing in their indignation for the rest of the day pleased Regis. He was glad Geralt had invited him to sit down, if only for the pleasure of frustrating bigots. Perhaps one day one of Geralt's peers would think to invite their own employees to do the same and cause a few aneurysms in the process.

He had expected it to be a one-off thing. It turned out that he was wrong. Every time there was a spare seat, Geralt would invite Regis to sit, and while the queen was initially confused – if not opposed – she soon became apathetic to Regis' presence, and even started to refer to him by his name rather than ‘vampire’ when greeting him.

It was a nice gesture, though it made more trouble for Regis than it fixed. He was by nature a verbose man and it was hard to remain quiet while listening to the Queen and her subjects discuss things he could have offered valuable contributions to. While standing by the wall, he’d been able to block out the discussions, but he wasn’t able to do that while in such close quarters. Having to sit and remain completely silent was _torture_. One of the only things that could distract him from the urge to interrupt was going over the hundreds of names of plants he had filed away.

Today they were discussing the alienage, and that made it harder than usual to focus on flora.

“-Can’t expand the alienage just for a couple of monsters. They’ll have to make do with what-“

_Wolfs Bane. Buckthorn. Crow’s eye._

“-They rebel? What then? They’re being packed together like livestock; surely they’ll protest conditions eventually, and if they start a riot-“

_Ergot seeds. Arenaria. Mistletoe._

“-Rid of a few of them. That’ll fix the problem.”

“We can’t just release them back into the wild. That’ll cause an issue.”

_Hickory. Moleyarrow. Ribleaf._

“Then just kill a few. No one will miss a few rock trolls-“

Regis inhaled sharply. _Allspice root_ , he thought angrily, his hands clenched in his lap. _Verbena_. Fool’s _parsley leaves_.

“-Should be the doppler’s! They’re the most dangerous. If they ever got loose, they could infiltrate our ranks. And then-“

“I should think,” began Regis, and every head at the table turned toward him. “That wouldn’t be an issue if you were to expand the alienage, or perhaps even let some monsters live among people if you are not willing to relinquish the resources.”

There was a brief, stunned silence…

Followed by indignation, naturally.

“Having the vampire sit at the table was one thing,” said Norrington with a scowl, his handsome face twisting. “But speaking on matters that don’t concern it? This has gone on long enough, Master Witcher. Get him out of here.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” protested Geralt with a scowl of his own. “He offered an opinion. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing wrong!?” The knight scoffed and managed to get spittle on Regis despite Regis being two chairs away. “No one asked him!”

Queen Meve sighed. When Regis glanced over, he saw that she was in the middle of rubbing her temples and taking a sip of the tea that was served to all attendants (even Regis, surprisingly, though he expected that was only because Geralt always pointedly told them that Regis liked mint tea).

Norrington reluctantly ceased his tirade.

“Vampire,” said Queen Meve. So they were back to that. “We typically do not allow your kind to participate in these discussions, and that you are being allowed to sit at the table is an oddity in and of itself.” Another sip of her drink, longer this time. No one made any attempt to take advantage of the momentary silence. “Even most humans are not extended that privilege,” she continued. “I should think such a privilege should be reason enough for you to stay your tongue, and if it is not, then I suggest you take your leave.”

Regis lowered his gaze. “Forgive me, your majesty. I thought perhaps the perspective of one who lives in the alienage may be of some value.”

“You were not… _entirely_ wrong to do so,” said Queen Meve. “But should you wish to comment in the future, you ought to ask permission first, given that you are a guest here and not a participant.”

Geralt said nothing. He didn’t even look at Regis. The complete lack of a response from Geralt was somehow worse than opposition would have been.

A knot developed in Regis’ throat and he slumped back in the chair, defeated by the queen’s politeness. He could not argue with her logic, even though it seemed unfair that he should be made to sit quietly while his fellows were berated and threatened.

Queen Meve clasped her hands together. “Now that that unpleasantness it out of the way, let us continue.”

A resolution to the alienage issue wasn’t found. Regis was glad that, at least for the moment, he didn’t have to worry about any of the residents of the alienage turning up dead.

The walk back to Geralt’s room was quiet. He couldn’t tell if Geralt reticence was deliberate or if he simply didn’t know what to say. Regis hoped it was the latter.

He closed the door behind them and decided if Geralt wouldn’t break the silence, he would. Geralt could maintain them for far longer than he could ever hope to, anyway.

“We had quite the interesting meeting today, I would say.” Regis followed Geralt across the room, watching Geralt flop into bed, face down. “Do you agree, Geralt?”

“Just as boring as all the others,” Geralt grumbled.

“Even with my interruption?”

“Yes.”

Well, he could always count on Geralt to be consistent.

He sat down next to Geralt, resting his hand on one of Geralt’s ankles. Geralt sighed and rolled over to face him.

“Ask your question, Regis. I know you’re dying to.”

“Very well,” said Regis, taking Geralt's dry tone in stride. “You yielded to your peers much faster than you have in the past. I am curious as to why.”

“Because this isn’t the same as letting you sit in a chair.” Geralt threw a forearm over his face, scowling. “It’s politics, and I don’t like to get involved in politics at the best of times.”

“I rather think ensuring my brethren aren’t slaughtered merely for existing is a compelling reason to involve yourself, just this once.” Regis absentmindedly ran his hand up Geralt’s calf. “I have seen you demonstrate compassion for us in the past. I believe, despite your protests, you find what you heard just as repellent as I.”

“And what do you propose I do, Regis? I’m a Witcher; my role is to kill monsters and flaunt myself for the public's enjoyment. How am I to implement change?”

“You’re _deliberately_ deprecating your role in the monarchy. You aren’t invited to those meetings for no reason.”

Geralt made a low groaning sound that Regis promptly categorised as a whine.

“If you do not wish to participate in the discussion,” continued Regis. “Then I only ask that you refuse should you ever be asked to harm my brethren for the crime of existing. That, I think, is a reasonable request.”

Geralt peered at him over his arm. “There are more Witcher’s than just me in this castle.”

“Then I hope they will follow your example.” Hope was all he _could_ do. He might have been on amicable terms with Geralt’s friends, but he held no sway over them. The Lambert one, in particular, was prone to doing jobs without questioning the morality of them. He would not hesitate to raze through the alienage population if the queen asked.

Geralt sighed. “I hope so too, Regis.”

Geralt leaned over and drew Regis onto the bed, pulling Regis down next to him. He deliberately tangled their legs.

“So,” said Geralt, apparently done with their previous topic. “Do I get a session tonight?”

“You had one last night,” said Regis, looking to the shiny black collar sitting on the bedside table. Geralt didn't wear it throughout the day, but he did like putting it on at night and admiring it in the mirror.

“Wasn’t long enough,” mumbled Geralt.

Regis moved his mouth to Geralt’s neck, sucking in his scent. It was such a familiar smell that it soothed away his anxieties. “Greedy brat,” he chided, closing his eyes and settling against Geralt’s chest. “After a nap, perhaps. I’d like some time to recover from our ordeal today.”

“Ordeal? You’re being dramatic,” said Geralt, scoffing. He wrapped his arms tight around Regis regardless, holding him close enough for Regis to hear the soft, rhythmic thud of his heart.

* * *

“Who cares what happens to them? It’s out of our hands once we catch them.”

“Listen to Lambert, Wolf. If anyone should be talking about the state of the alienage, it’s the mages. They’re the ones that have to interact with the monsters once they’re in there.”

“Just figured we had some obligation, since we put them in there.”

“Well, we don’t. So forget about it. You’ll just end up pissing the nobles off if you try to change things and they’re a pain in the ass when they don’t like you.”

Regis generally wasn’t the kind of man that eavesdropped on private conversations, but he hadn’t been able to resist pricking his ears up when casual conversation between Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel had turned to the alienage. Apparently his words the other day had had an impact on Geralt. 

He heard liquid splash into a mug.

“Well,” said Geralt. “Queen Meve might be open to expanding the alienage, at least. Doesn’t seem to dislike monsters as much as previous rulers.”

“That’s because she’s young,” said Eskel. “She wasn’t around when they were a real problem. We’re dealing with them faster than they can procreate these days.”

“The sapient monsters were never that dangerous,” said Geralt.

“’Course they are,” protested Lambert, snorting. “You know how easy it would be for any one of them to start a massacre?”

“Yeah, but how did we catch most of them? Dwelling in caves or stealing food from stalls to survive is what I recall.”

“And what if they decided to just start killing? What if they lost their temper? We'd have a bloodbath on our hands.”

“You could easily say that about mages,” said Geralt, taking a swig of his drink. Regis could faintly smell the Rivian Kriek from beyond the room. “Hell, about _us_.”

“Yeah, but…” Lambert didn’t seem to have an argument against that. Regis indulged in a private smile.

“This is why you shouldn’t be sleeping with your attendant, Wolf,” said Eskel. “Next you’ll be trying to tell the queen we should release the monsters. I’m sure that’d go down well.”

A chair creaked.

“It’d go down better than you’re assuming. She’s just pleased I’m participating more lately.”

“Why do you even go to those things?” asked Lambert. “You’re a Witcher, not a politician. _We_ never get invited. Are we not important enough or something?”

As the conversation transitioned to a topic Regis didn’t care to listen to, he returned to his book, flicking absentmindedly through the pages while he mulled over what he had overheard (well, eavesdropped on, if he was honest).

There was very little chance Geralt speaking to the Queen would actually change the circumstances of the monsters living within Rivia, and yet, the thought still inspired hope in him. To live alongside the humans was all the residents of the alienage had ever wanted. It was what had gotten a lot of them caught, as most sapient monsters were no longer content to live out their lives in caves and forests and other such meagre dwellings. They wanted to integrate into society, to contribute. But the humans, of course, did not want monsters living among them. They feared the monsters, and while this wasn’t entirely unreasonable, given what they were innately capable of, it had lead to centuries of subjugation of innocents.

Compared to most monsters, Regis lived a life of luxury. The majority of monsters were not employed. They ate scraps and begged for alms from their fellow monsters, and many of the more vulnerable ones died to the elements, or starvation, or dehydration. A few, seeing no end to their suffering, even took their own lives. Regis, conversely, had a job that provided him enough food, water, and shelter to be comfortable. Even if he hadn’t been employed, being a vampire, it wasn’t necessary for him to eat or drink to subsist (but that was not a life most vampires would live voluntarily). Most monsters could never even conceive of living the kind of life he did, and that it was still such a pitiful existence compared to that of the average human was depressing.

There were children in the alienage; fledglings and succubus children and half-breeds and a young werewolf or two whose curse was too strong to be lifted, and with how young and impressionable they were, they would have been easy to integrate into human society. That was where Regis would have started had he the political power to deal with the alienage problem. It would have been an easy first step to making the alienage less of a draw on resources. All those creatures had skills that would benefit human society, just as the mages with their abilities benefited them. But no ruler had ever considered allowing monsters to live among humans and Regis doubted Meve would be the first.

He shook his head and tore into the next chapter of his book. Dwelling on it would only sour his mood. There was a ball tonight, and as he would be required to stand in a corner and smile amiably to all passersby, he wanted to be in better spirits by the time it arrived. To force a smile was always difficult.

* * *

Dettlaff, to Regis’ great surprised, expressed interest in getting to know the Witcher. Being an introverted man with few friends to speak of, it was unusual for Dettlaff to want to get to know anyone, let alone a Witcher. It was a struggle just to get him to attend luncheons with _Orianna_ and those two had been friends since they were fledglings.

He wasn’t going to deny him, of course. Dettlaff and Geralt being acquainted would give Geralt more reason to visit him in the alienage. While spending time at the palace was never a bad thing, it was difficult to get the tools for their sessions past the guards, and Regis tired of doing it. Geralt coming to the alienage would be far more convenient, and far more private as well; his door might not have had a lock, but at least messengers, the queen, and Geralt’s companions didn’t walk in without even bothering to announce themselves. 

Geralt was hesitant to agree to a lunch with Dettlaff. The only kind of interaction he’d had with the man thus far were Dettlaff’s long, unblinking stares, so his reluctance was understandable. That sort of thing didn’t give one the impression they were liked. He probably only agreed in the end because Regis said they would spend some private time in his house when they were done.

Dettlaff purchased a chicken pie in preparation for the evening. It was hot, steaming, and cut into three pieces by the time he and Geralt sat down at Dettlaff’s small dining table. His house, much like Regis’, was sparsely furnished and one-room. He had a few half-constructed toys scattered about and there was a very old black cat sitting curled up on his bed, snoring softly. Its former owner had lived in the house directly across from Dettlaff. As they had passed from old age, Dettlaff had taken it upon himself to care for the creature. It probably provided him with more companionship than anyone else in the alienage.

The moment the food was served, Geralt started forking the pie into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. He wasn’t the most well-mannered of dinner guests and Regis gathered that part of his enthusiasm for the pie was how convenient an excuse to avoid talking to Dettlaff it made. Dettlaff wasn’t to be dissuaded by Geralt’s full mouth, however:

“Witcher,” said Dettlaff, in the process of cutting his own pie into bite sized pieces. “You had a birthday a few months ago, I believe. How old did you turn?”

Geralt swallowed his mouthful of food with some difficulty, using the glass of water Dettlaff had served to wash it down. It was several long, awkward seconds before he answered. “Fifty-two.”

“I see.” Dettlaff continued cutting his pie. “Have you had many relationships in that time?”

“Pardon?”

“Relationships. Have you had many?”

“I’m not sure that’s an appropriate line of questioning,” said Regis, glancing between the two. “Why don’t you tell him about your work, Geralt? I’m sure you have some interesting stories to share.”

“I don’t wish to hear about his work," said Dettlaff. "I wish to hear about his past relationships.”

Regis was just now starting to realise that getting to know Geralt might _not_ have been Dettlaff’s actual motivation for arranging the lunch. They were close, good friends, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that Dettlaff would want to question Geralt about their relationship. It was flattering, in a way, but also rather embarrassing considering he was over four hundred years old, _older_ than Dettlaff, and perfectly capable of managing his own relationships thank you very much.

Before he could renew his protests, Geralt spoke.

“Only had one serious relationship,” said Geralt. “With a sorceress. Didn’t last.”

Dettlaff tilted his head. “And why is that?”

“We wanted different things out of the relationship,” said Geralt, shrugging. He forked another, smaller portion of pie into his mouth and swallowed. “Doubt you want to hear all the sordid details, but I can tell you that I don’t intend to end things with Regis anytime soon.”

Regis leaned his face into his hand. This was not a conversation he particularly wanted to bear witness to.

“I should hope so. He seems very fond of you.” Dettlaff regarded Geralt with suspicion. “I don’t wish to threaten you, Witcher, but should you hurt him…”

“Sounds pretty close to a threat to me,” said Geralt wryly, and Regis let out a sigh that was loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room – including the cat, which raised its head and flicked its tail unhappily.

“While I appreciate your concern, Dettlaff, you really needn’t do this,” said Regis, waving his fork at Dettlaff. “Our relationship is – well, I’m not entirely sure what it is, honestly. But it’s not as romantic as you are assuming. I cannot say if it is even exclusive.”

“It is,” Geralt informed him, which came as news to Regis. He’d assumed Geralt was still sleeping with girls on the side.

He blinked at Geralt a few times, slightly dazed, and slowly lifted his head away from his hand.

“We are exclusive?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I- oh. We haven’t even been on a proper date.”

Geralt snorted. “We’ve been fucking for months. I think we can bypass the usual formalities.”

“So, we’re…?”

“What, do you want me to get a ring? Would that make my intentions clearer?” Geralt ducked his head, visibly flustered by his own suggestion. He forked some more pie into his mouth.

Regis poked at his own piece of pie with his fork, unsure of what to make of this newfound information. That this was more than a fanciful fling for Geralt changed a multitude of things: the expectations they had for each other, their boundaries, their very future. And Regis was quickly coming to the conclusion that he _wanted_ a future with Geralt. He wanted all that came with it; the coupling and the shared housing and - and the bonding vows.

Was he-

He was. He was in love with Geralt, and Geralt _loved him back_.

As far as love confessions went, this was the most unorthodox he had received. And incredibly sweet, nonetheless. For Geralt to announce that he loved Regis in front of someone meant a great deal.

“Perhaps we should get a ring,” said Regis, smiling and leaning on a fist. “Matching rings. That’s what humans do, isn’t it?”

Geralt choked on his pie. Dettlaff arched an eyebrow, bemused.

“I see you two haven’t been communicating well,” commented Dettlaff dryly, taking the water jug sitting in the middle of the table and refilling Geralt’s glass. Geralt was quick to tip the contents into his mouth. “Something that will need to be worked on before the bonding ritual, I imagine.”

Having finished his entire glass of water, Geralt had recovered his voice. “Bonding ritual?” he rasped.

Dettlaff shook his head at Regis. “You haven’t even told him of the bonding ritual?”

“I hadn’t reason to believe we would perform it,” said Regis, shrugging a shoulder and forking a small portion of pie into his mouth. “We still may not. The vampiric methods of reaching union may be off-putting or unpleasant to a human. Some sacrifices must be made, in that regard.”

“He has the smell of a vampire. I am sure he could perform them adequately.”

“That doesn’t concern me. It’s his comfort I’m worried about.”

“Regis,” interrupted Geralt, holding up a hand to forestall interruption. Both Regis and Dettlaff looked over. “Just tell me the bonding ritual. I’ll do it.”

“I wouldn’t promise that before learning what it entails,” said Regis.

“Unless it involves cutting off an extremity, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Dettlaff stared at Geralt like he was re-evaluating Geralt’s IQ. He always did have trouble discerning jokes.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” said Regis, faintly amused. “Nothing nearly so morbid or crude.” He discarded his cutlery, folding his hands in front of himself. “But I must ask first, are you certain you wish to discuss such an intimate process now? We have only just established our relationship as exclusive. There’s no need to hurry into commitment.”

“You’re offering an explanation, Regis, not pulling me into commitment,” said Geralt.

Dettlaff frowned at him.

“Which,” Geralt quickly amended. “I wouldn’t be opposed to.”

“Of course.” Regis tapped the tips of his fingers together as he considered Geralt. “Well, if you are certain…”

“I am.”

“Very well, I will give you the short version. We can cover the long one another day.” Regis cleared his throat. “How do you feel about drinking body fluids, Geralt?”

“What kind of body fluids?” was Geralt’s immediate response to that, followed by a series of facial expressions that ranged from troubled to embarrassed. He was probably imagining a wide variety of body fluids, which was rather amusing to Regis.

“Blood, Geralt,” said Regis, and Geralt relaxed. “Though I know you aren’t opposed to the consumption of other bodily fluids.”

Geralt’s gaze shot to Dettlaff, who remained sitting impassively, observing them with little interest and not a hint of discomfort. He was handling the subject far better than Geralt, who radiated awkwardness. Dettlaff had well over three hundred years on Geralt, so this kind of conversation bore little embarrassment for him. If anything, he probably found the topic dull. It was far from the first time they'd discussed it and they had seen plenty a bonding over the years. Typically between two vampires, granted, but there would be little difference in how it was performed for a union between a human and vampire. Same general idea, and Regis would of course familiarise himself with the human process of union so he could integrate that into the act. He had observed a human 'wedding' many a time, but never had he seen one from start to finish. Any time he had attended one, it had been as a server rather than an invite, and servers were only present for so much. He would have to do some reading.

“Swallowed enough blood in my life,” said Geralt, finally tearing his eyes from Dettlaff. “Some more won’t do me any harm.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Regis with a smile. “There is also the consummation, which may require the use of the harness as-“

“Maybe we _should_ talk about this in private,” interrupted Geralt, his ears steadily turning crimson. He otherwise looked unfazed this time, which was an impressive show of self-control.

Regis chuckled. “I thought you might say that.” He turned to Dettlaff, who had resumed eating his pie. “Have your questions been adequately answered, Dettlaff?”

Dettlaff swallowed his mouthful of pie before replying. “For now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Geralt, and Regis could almost hear the groan behind every syllable.

“It means what it sounds like, Geralt.” Dettlaff forked another portion of pie into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before he continued. “You will treat him well. I won’t tolerate seeing him harmed.”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Right. Got it.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be receiving similar threats from _your_ companions?” asked Regis, arching an eyebrow at Geralt.

“Keep an eye over your shoulder for Vesemir,” said Geralt. “He doesn’t trust vampires.”

“Wonderful,” said Regis dryly. “And Eskel and Lambert?”

“They’re more likely to come to me directly.” Geralt leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He’d eaten the last crumb on his plate. “To call me an idiot and the like. Lambert especially.”

“Such reliable friends you have,” said Regis, rather tickled by the thought. He was sure Geralt would give them a piece of his mind if they tried to persuade him to date a nice, human girl instead. The man could get very verbose when he wanted to be. Which wasn’t as often as Regis would have liked, but Regis enjoyed the few times he did.

Apparently having decided Geralt was worthy of his time, Dettlaff moved onto a new line of questioning: “What do you like to do with your friends, Geralt?”

After a nonplussed pause, Geralt answered him. They talked well into the night about every aspect of Geralt’s life, even things Regis hadn’t thought to ask about. He left Dettlaff’s house having learned that Geralt enjoyed fishing with bombs, liked collecting art, and had won two fist fighting tournaments. Little things, perhaps, but things Regis enjoyed knowing all the same.

Much later, they lay down in Regis’ bed and Geralt curled up between Regis’ legs, his head on Regis’ chest. Regis idly stroked his hair. It would have been easy to fall asleep like this, but he knew Geralt would want a session before the night was through. He was always happy to provide.

“Regis.”

“Mmm?”

“What’s the rest of the ritual?”

“Oh.” They would be postponing the session for now, it seemed. “That curious, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well then…” Regis dragged a finger over the shell of Geralt’s ear, eliciting a shiver. “The blood sharing is fairly simple and straight forward. It only need be a small amount, and very small wounds with which to drink from. The copulation is where things get tricky.”

“How so?”

“You are familiar with our bat forms, yes? Traditionally, the union occurs between such forms, and as you don’t have one…”

“…Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” Regis’ hands drop to Geralt’s sides, raking up the hard flesh. “It will be quite the fit, should you be willing to undertake it. If not, we will have to manage through some other kind of intimacy."

“If it’s not going to fit in my ass, it’s not going to fit in my mouth either.”

“You have a tongue, don’t you? It will suffice.”

Geralt buried his face into Regis’ chest, his breath warming Regis’ skin. The material of Regis' shirt was threadbare. He would have to get a new one at some point.

“We’ll try the other way, first," murmured Geralt. "I'm sure I’ll manage it.”

“It is quite large, though, and I do have the tendency to bite and scratch in that- oh, Geralt, really?”

“What? You’re talking about sex. Can’t help it.”

“We’ll deal with that in a moment,” said Regis, moving his leg deliberately along the growing bump in Geralt’s trousers. Geralt inhaled shakily at the slight touch, sensitive as always. “Are you familiar with keratinized penile spines?”

“… _Spines_?”

“Well, this is going to be quite a conversation.”

Needless to say, Geralt was a little disquieted by the time Regis had finished his explanation.

* * *

“Queen Meve,” said Geralt during a slow, uneventful meeting. As Geralt rarely referred to the Queen by name, her attention was drawn to him immediately. So was everyone else’s attention, for that matter; the elders in the room were staring particularly hard and with visible disapproval. Regis gathered that they didn’t like the familiar tone Geralt used. Whether it was a disapproval born of jealousy or indignation on behalf of the queen, however, Regis couldn’t tell.

“Yes, Geralt?” asked Meve.

“I have a proposition.”

The queen smiled, apparently pleased with his initiative. “Oh? About the arena? We have not reached that topic yet, but if you are so eager, you are welcome to share it now. We will, of course, come back to it at the appropriate time.”

“No, not about the arena,” said Geralt. “About the alienage and everyone within.”

Regis sat a little straighter in his chair, observing the unfolding scene with as much curiosity and apprehension as everyone else.

“Go on,” encouraged the Queen.

“Discussions here have yet to find a solution to the alienage issue," said Geralt. "You should appoint someone to maintain it and its residents.”

Regis knew exactly what Geralt was about to suggest and he tensed in anticipation of the inevitable backlash.

It had been a month since their conversation concerning the fate of the alienage – he had started to lose hope that Geralt would ever speak up on the monster’s behalf, but clearly Geralt had made up his mind, and he looked ready to argue his position. Things were about to get very heated.

“Assign Regis the task,” said Geralt. Norrington practically jumped out of his chair in his eagerness to protest. Geralt, however, was quicker, _and_ louder, standing up to address the entire table. “Who better for the task than someone who _lives_ in the alienage? Certainly not us, as proven by a month of _dawdling_ , if you will forgive my saying so, your highness.”

“I will,” said the Queen, even though her clasped hands were turning white at the knuckles. “But please, sit down. You too, Sir Norrington.”

Geralt dropped back into his chair. With great reluctance, Norrington followed suit.

“That doesn’t seem wise,” said one of the elders with difficulty. It was clear he was restraining himself for the sake of the Queen. “The vampire could take advantage of the position.”

“His name is Regis,” said Geralt calmly, though he curled his hand into a slow fist, knuckles cracking. “As with every other position of this nature, all propositions would need to be authorised by the Queen. Unless you do not trust the Queens judgement?”

The man opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish.

The Queen neglected to comment. She watched them, her red lips pressed into a thin line.

“The Queen’s judgement is infallible,” piqued up another man, his hands fisted and twitching. “No one is suggesting otherwise, but you must understand our objection to putting a vampire in charge of not only the alienage, but _our_ safety.

“Exactly,” piqued up Norrington. “Personally, I would sooner see the monsters evicted! Their contributions aren’t worth the risk.”

“I agree,” said Jeanna, nodding along to his words.

“Without the rock trolls,” said an old man with grey, thinning hair and a hunched back. “Several building projects taking place over the city will need to be taken over by men. That requires money and training, _and_ compensation by the treasury for those heading the projects.”

“A good point,” said a younger man. Jon was his name, Regis vaguely recalled. He scratched his mop of ginger hair. “We would need to replace a considerable number of palace staff as well. The Queens very guard is a vampire.”

“Well, I suppose a few could stay,” conceded Norrington. “But what about the unemployed ones? Why bother keeping them?”

“They might be vermin, Sir Norrington, but we do not kill sentient beings – even those descended from the depths of hell – simply for existing,” said another knight, puffing out his chest and proudly displaying the crest on his armour, which he was prone to wearing even on the hottest of days. “We allow them to live so they may find repentance.”

Norrington’s face turned pink, the veins standing out on his forehead. “I know that! I took the oath just as you did. But some are beyond saving, you must agree?”

“Perhaps,” said the knight, sniffing. “But ‘some’ was not what you were suggesting. You were suggesting we kill all that are not of use to us.”

“Semantics,” said Norrington gruffly, waving a hand.

“If they are such a leech on resources, then find something for them to do,” said Geralt. “I’m sure they’d rejoice at the opportunity to be productive. They aren’t voluntarily sitting around in their own filth.”

“I know the succubuses in the alienage take clients,” said Jon. “We could get them properly employed, on file and whatnot. And Godlings and Lutins are good for a _lot_ of things.”

“What?” spluttered Norrington. Next to him, Jeanna made a noise of disgust. “How are people getting into the alienage? It’s locked and guarded!”

“Oh, er…” Jon grinned stupidly, his face turning faintly pink. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

The old greying man laughed. His shaggy hair flew as he shook his head. “The monsters have already integrated into our city more than you realise. It would be very hard to get rid of them.”

“Fine,” said Norrington, throwing up his hands. “But knowing that doesn’t fix our problems with the alienage! We can’t keep throwing wayward monsters in there and hope they don’t revolt when they have high enough numbers. Even if they only managed to kill a few humans, that’s a few too many.”

“I already proposed a solution, and one more viable than any others that have been proposed,” said Geralt coolly. “Let Regis take over for us.”

“I’d sooner plough an incubus than let a vampire-“ began Norrington, but a gentle, insistent cough from the Queen compelled him into silence. The whole table fell to attention.

“I think,” said the Queen slowly, looking around at each of her subjects. “That we ought to hear Mister Regis talk. We have not, after all, heard if he agrees with Geralt’s arrangement.”

She looked to Regis. As did everyone else, waiting expectantly. Geralt certainly had a knack for putting him in difficult situations.

“Provided the Queen is willing, I would be happy to overlook maintenance of the alienage,” said Regis, offering a small, easy smile. He didn’t let his fangs show. “In fact, nothing would give me greater pride.”

“And how would you perform your job?” asked Queen Meve.

Regis was feeling rather like he was at a job interview. “I’m certain I could solve the overpopulation issue,” said Regis with as much poise as he could manage. “And should I be permitted this job, I promise to improve the alienage’s function in a manner that will benefit the entire city. I will put something sustainable in place to ensure we will not encounter an issue such as this again.”

Meve ran her fingers over her bottom lip, thoughtful.

If the lines on Norrington’s face got any deeper, he was going to end up drawing blood. Several of his peers looked similarly distressed, while others had either an expression of resentment or interest.

Regis couldn’t see Geralt’s face. He was watching Meve.

They were going to need to have a long talk when all of this was done. First about how Geralt was to be rewarded for this touching gesture, and after that, about Geralt providing a warning before making propositions on Regis’ behalf. It was a pleasant surprise, but one he would have liked to be prepared for. He could have readied a speech.

“I must be honest: this is a very unorthodox proposition,” said Meve after a considerable silence. “But you are a honorable vampire, Mister Regis, so I will take it under consideration. I’m sure you would better know how to address problems with the alienage than those who have never so much as stepped foot in the place.”

Geralt’s shoulders dropped, relieved. It was hard for Regis not to follow suit. For the sake of appearances, he remained sitting straight, his shoulders a hard line. If he was ever going to be able to work with these people, he could not let himself be seen as meek and pliable. He knew what sharks the Queens inner circle could be.

Geralt finally turned to face him and there was the smallest of smiles on his lips, a look reserved only for Regis. It slipped away as he resumed facing the Queen.

Regis thought to himself that he very, _very_ much loved this man.

“Thank you, your majesty,” said Regis graciously. He lowered his head in a show of respect. “Even if you do not accept me into the position, I also thank you for taking the time to listen to my pledge.”

“You are welcome, Regis.” The Queen leaned back in his chair, her hands unclasping and reaching for her tea, which she brought close enough to take a dainty sip from. “Now,” she said, wiping a stray droplet from her lips with a napkin. “We have already spent a considerable amount of time on this topic. Let us move on to other matters.”

The meeting proceeded a little tenser than usual and ended before much else could be adequately discussed. Regis walked behind Geralt as they exited the room, keeping a close eye on Geralt's peers, most of whom looked none too happy with what Geralt had done. They didn’t glare at Geralt for long when Regis stared back at them in silent challenge.

What Geralt had done today had the potential to improve the lives of everyone in the alienage. Regis couldn’t have been prouder. Only a year ago, Regis never would have imagined Geralt would be advocating change on his behalf, and certainly never would have he thought of Geralt as a potential romantic partner. How drastically things change.

Geralt barely managed to get through his chamber door before Regis had him pushed up against it, his hands tangling in Geralt’s shirt and his lips pressing hot, ravenous kisses to Geralt's mouth and jaw and neck.

“You beautiful, beautiful man,” Regis whispered between kisses. “You beautiful, brave man.”

“Regis,” Geralt moaned, his hands coming to Regis’ shoulders, grasping at them as Regis ravaged every part of him he could reach with his mouth. After that display of confidence, Regis fully intended to have him screaming before the day was through. The bliss would deprive him of even the ability to recall his own name.

“Regis,” said Geralt again, dropping his face to Regis’ hair as Regis descended on his chest, biting gently at the curve of a pec. He tore through Geralt’s shirt as he went. Geralt was going to need to buy yet another one to replace it. “God R-Regis, I'm guessing that was okay?”

“More than okay, in fact,” said Regis, briefly fitting his mouth over one of Geralt’s nipples and sucking. Geralt breathed shallowly. He didn’t dislodge until it was nice, wet and red, and then smiled toothily up at Geralt. He could smell his arousal and hear the thud of his heart. “A little warning would have been nice – but we shall speak about that at a later date. Right now…”

He dropped to his knees. Geralt was soon too incoherent for any kind of conversation.

When they were done, they lay down in Geralt’s bed and Regis held Geralt close like the treasure he was.


	5. Part Five

Dressing up was a rare event for Regis. The only nice clothes he owned were the suits provided to all attendants so they would look appropriately elegant at the Queen's various functions and two fashionable shirts given to him by Orianna, who - despite having just as little funds as he - managed to dress as well as your average noble. He dressed modestly, in clothes that were often threadbare and ragged. He didn’t want to spend what little money he had on something nicer. He cared little about fashion, and as the weather didn’t affect him as it did humans, he didn’t _have_ to care. He could have gone around completely naked and it wouldn’t have made any difference to his well-being (in regard to weather exposure, that was; walking around naked through Rivia would undoubtedly earn him a beating or six).

He would have been content to continue wearing his personal choice of outfits for the interminable future, but he was told pointblank by the Queen’s chamberlain that ‘one is not to wear rags when attending a personal meeting with the Queen’. And so he was bathed, groomed, and put into a tight fitting doublet that brought legitimacy to Geralt's various complaints about them. Now he could see why the man hated them so much.

The chamberlain briskly escorted him to the Queen and elbowed him in the side as they approached, muttering for him to bow. Regis performed as flourishing a bow as he could manage, but still spied the chamberlain rolling their eyes as they exited the room.

All of this for a simple dinner.

He’d been told little about the purpose of being called before the Queen. A few burly men had come to his residence, marched him out of the alienage and to the palace, and had then placed him before the Queen’s chamberlain. The chamberlain, while not very forthcoming with details, had at least had the decency to tell him he wasn't in the palace for punishment. Regis had been relieved to hear that news considering what being dragged out of the alienage by guards _usually_ meant for a monster.

And now here he was, sitting at a beautiful rosewood table across from Queen Meve, watching her spread a napkin over her lap. A soup he neither recognised nor liked the look of had been served. He hoped it tasted better than it looked.

“Mister Emiel Regis,” said Meve, smiling and folding her hands, ignoring her meal. “I told you I would consider Geralt’s proposition, and I have.”

"Regardless of what you decide, I thank you for taking the time to tell me face to face," said Regis. That the Queen had felt the need to bring him to the palace to announce her decision prompted a swell of hope, but he forced it back down. He didn't want to end up too disappointed should the conversation not go the way he wanted it to.

“You have done a good job with Geralt," said Meve. "It is the least you deserve. Unfortunately, it seems he no longer needs you to force him to perform his duties.”

“So I have noticed,” said Regis. Geralt would offer the odd complaint, put on a show, but no longer did he outright refuse to do what was asked of him. Regis was proud of him and how far he had come.

“You will soon be out of the job, I’m afraid,” said Meve. “Geralt has earned his independence.”

Regis remained silent, nodding along. The Queen's expression indicated she had more to say and he didn't dare interrupt. 

“I have therefore decided to accept your and Geralt’s request to have you overlook the maintenance of the alienage,” continued Meve. “I trust you will do your job to the best of your ability.”

It was a struggle not to smile wide enough for his teeth to show. Being welcomed into an influential position didn’t necessarily mean the Queen was comfortable with his vampiric nature. 

“Thank you,” he said, swallowing. “It will be a great honour to work with you, your majesty.”

“I look forward to it,” said Meve, finally retrieving her spoon and starting on her bowl of soup. Regis was quick to follow suit. “I expect great things of you, Regis.”

“I thank you again, your majesty,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. He was not a man prone to outbursts of emotions, but, to be fair, this was quite the monumental event. A little discomposure was warranted. 

The soup turned out not to be to his taste, but that did nothing to dampen Regis’ good mood. He could have been made to eat manure and he still would have been in high spirits. Geralt came to share his high spirits when Regis informed him of the Queen’s decision and they decided to celebrate the occasion with good drink, good food, and good friends. Even Geralt’s fellow Witcher’s put aside their prejudices for the night in favour of sharing in the merrymaking (and for Regis’ famous mandrake brew, of course).

He was brought back to the palace the following day to be given a thorough introduction to his new job as the Queen’s Monster Relations Adviser. Geralt would have liked to accompany him, but suffering from a terrible hangover as he was, he’d opted to remain in bed. It was too early in the morning for him to be awake, anyway. Geralt was rarely up before ten.

He wasn’t to start his new job until the following month. Before then, the Queen’s staff had been instructed to get him integrated into high society and teach him the administrative part of the job. The bulk of his work was to be planning, bookkeeping, and miscellaneous paperwork, but he was also to learn the daily machinations of relevant palace nobles, many of whom he was told he would need to please in order to get access to certain resources. The Queen had promised to help him, should any of them prove too difficult to persuade. She could force their hands, if need be. 

The lessons started that very week and each one went late into the evening. There was more to learn than Regis could have ever imagined and he found it exhausting and exciting in equal measure. For humans, his teachers were surprisingly kind and patient, and didn’t mind at all if Regis needed more time to familiarise himself with certain aspects of human culture (figuring out what bow was appropriate for what title had taken him a few days to master, for example). He found that he barely had time to see Geralt, but that was tolerable so long as they got to sleep in the same bed. Geralt was always waiting for him at his residence these days, and he was grateful, even if Geralt was usually asleep by the time he arrived.

He enjoyed what he was learning. He always had been a man who valued education. There were some things that seemed silly, or superfluous, but he appreciated knowing about them all the same. The only thing he found he didn’t really enjoy was the paperwork. He preferred to speak, rather than write, and he found it difficult to learn all the writing conventions for a man of his position. It all came across as needlessly complicated, but as his job couldn’t be done without writing a multitude of letters, contracts, and other such trollop, he would simply have to get used to it.

In what little free time he had, he took notes about the alienage, about what he felt could be improved, what needed to change as soon as possible, and possible solutions to the overpopulation issue. He also spoke to residents, asking them what necessities they lacked and what they would like to see in the alienage, and discussed with the unemployed residents what jobs they would be able to perform. He wasn’t content to wait until his job had started to begin gathering information. He wanted to have it now, so he would be able to submit his first request to the Queen within a week of starting. He was working himself ragged when he didn’t need to, but it was for a worthy reason.

He might have been exhausted by the time he went to bed every day, but he was also happier than he had been in a long time.

* * *

The first time he got an invitation to one of the Queens balls – not as a server, but as an honoured guest – Regis was stunned into silence. It hadn’t occurred to him that his new position would afford him opportunities such as this. Given how furtive his first dinner with the Queen had been, he had half expected he would be treated as something of a dirty little secret. Clearly that wasn’t the case. The Queen was treating him like any other advisor, and that included giving him access to all the benefits of being one.

Regis had started work last week, and busy as he was, he left it to Geralt to arrange an appropriate outfit for him. He was pleasantly surprised to find Geralt had picked out a long, black robe with silver trimmings that looked absolutely stunning on him, if he did say so himself. Geralt had gone out of his way to choose an outfit that complimented his eyes and hair. He thanked Geralt as he examined himself in a water basin and smiled wide. He didn’t usually care about his appearance, but he had to admit – he looked _good_. As did Geralt, but when didn’t he? The man was ravishing no matter what he wore.

“What’s the queen celebrating this time, anyway?” asked Geralt while pulling at the armpits of his doublet. No matter how many adjustments tailors did for him, he always found something about his outfit to complain about.

“The Emperor of Nilfgaard is visiting,” said Regis. “Emhyr var Emreis. I hear he’s the kind of man that leaves an impression.”

“Don’t doubt it,” said Geralt. He sat heavily in a chair, legs stretched out before him. “Met him twice already. He’s a right arrogant dick these days.”

“And at the time of meeting him you were…?”

“Not much better, I know, but it’s different when that’s your attitude while running an entire country.” Geralt pulled some more at his doublet. “If I’m a dick, it doesn’t affect as many people.”

“That, I must concede.” Regis turned away from the basin, joining Geralt in sitting down. They had an hour or so before the festivities began. “Would you care to regale me with the tale of how you met him?”

“It’s a strange one.” Geralt shrugged. “Later, perhaps. It needs longer than the time we have.”

“Oho, now I’m _especially_ curious.”

When it came time to attend the ball, they entered shoulder to shoulder, their hands brushing. It didn’t take long for the other attendees to descend on them like vultures. On Geralt especially, as they immediately began performing re-enactments of his fights and complimenting Geralt on his recent performances in the arena. Geralt was far more gracious about how he responded than he had been in the past.

Much to Regis' surprise, he got quite a bit of attention himself. The other attendees found the fact he was a nobleman vampire quite the novelty. The Nilfgaardian’s that had accompanied their Emperor to Rivia were particularly interested, seeing as there wasn’t a single vampire to speak of in Nilfgaard. There were a few who clearly disapproved of him, who didn’t shy away from calling him a bloodsucker and a freak to his face, but those people were in the minority; it was in poor taste to insult anyone at a Rivian ball, even someone as abominable as a vampire. This wasn’t Skellige.

Geralt drifted off elsewhere while Regis regaled some kindly party guests with tales of his youth. Without mentioning the blood drinking, of course. With how intrigued they were, they probably would have liked to hear such stories, but Regis wasn’t fond of recalling his drunken escapades and had even less desire to speak of them. They were a great source of shame for him. He instead told them of what humorous events he could remember, framing them in much the same way as a human would teenage shenanigans. He gathered by their smiles and giggles that they were enjoying his stories.

The Emperor arrived fashionably late and arm in arm with Queen Meve, who was smiling so sunnily that she looked about ready to spontaneously combust. Her feelings on the Emperor were clear to anyone that looked at her. The Emperor, however, was stony-faced and maintained that expression even as they began the initiating dance.

Regis didn’t immediately join in. It was instinct for him to stand back, as he had done in the past, and he would have remained an observer had one of his conversation companions not shyly asked him for a dance. It certainly put a new spin on her interest in his tales. He obliged her, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Geralt was frowning at him from across the room. Clearly, he did not approve, but it couldn’t be helped. Regis could not say no to such a lovely dame.

They did a simple, four step dance while the Queen's musicians provided a lovely euphonious tune for them to sway to. If Regis was honest, the dancing was too simple for his tastes, lacking the energy of vampiric dancing, but he wouldn’t press the girl into something more complicated. It would draw more attention to them than either of them desired. As it was, there were already a multitude of eyes on them.

He didn’t manage to finish dancing with the girl before she was pried away from him by a disgruntled looking Geralt, who promptly took her place. She flustered for a moment, glared at them, then left the dancing floor in a huff. Regis felt rather sorry for her, but he promptly forgot about detaching from Geralt and demanding that Geralt apologise to her when Geralt guided him into a sway and leaned his face into Regis’ neck. The man had him wrapped around his little finger.

“That was very unkind, Geralt,” he said into Geralt’s ear. “You should have at least let her finish the first dance.”

“Let her find someone else to dance with,” mumbled Geralt. “She’s pretty enough.”

“Nonetheless, you could have been kinder.” Regis glanced around the room. There were quite a few people openly staring, including the Emperor, whose eyebrows had noticeably risen. It was the first change of expression he'd had since his arrival. “You’ve caused quite a scene.”

“This is far from the first time. I have a knack for it.”

“Indeed you do, but this is quite a bit different from your usual mischief,” said Regis, but he smiled, because it was hard not to with Geralt being so openly affectionate with him. Not that he had shied away from showing him public affection in the past, but never on this level. “You’re involving yourself with a vampire,” he went on. “A great act of deviance.”

Geralt snorted. “Isn’t that what this relationship is built on?”

Regis laughed softly. “With a side of mutual love and trust, I like to think.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Geralt raised his head, his nose brushing Regis’ cheek. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be subjecting myself to dancing for you.”

“Is it really that awful?”

“Absolutely the worst, Regis.”

There was a first, second, and third dance, and by the third dance everyone seemed to unanimously agree it was time to indulge in drink and food. Geralt stole half the contents of a sea food platter, as per usual, while Regis nibbled on some pastries and fruit. The staff always served the most delectable strawberry danishes. He ate and conversed with a few of the girls from earlier, sans the one that had asked him for a dance. He wasn’t surprised when they asked him about the nature of his relationship with Geralt. He was honest with them, though he was as sparing with the details as politeness permitted. He valued his privacy and he knew Geralt did too.

From across the room, he saw the Emperor and Geralt briefly speak, lapse into silence, stare hard at each other, and then abruptly part. Geralt was offered a goblet of wine as he stalked away and he drank the contents in one gulp. It was an almost impressive display. Whatever had happened between him and the Emperor in the past, it didn’t look to have left them on very good terms. It was hard to imagine what the Emperor could have done to upset Geralt to such an extent. He would have to ask.

A flash of purple caught his attention. He turned just in time to watch Dandelion gallivant up to him, fighting his way into the small crowd that had gathered around Regis to give Regis’ hand a shake.

“Regis! Just the vampire I’ve been looking for!” He grinned practically from ear to ear, his perfect white teeth gleaming under the overhead chandelier. “Queen Meve just told me the good news! I offer you my congratulations, Regis. A better man couldn’t have been chosen for the job.”

“Thank you, Dandelion,” said Regis, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze in return. “Did you enjoy Toussaint?”

“ _Everyone_ enjoys Toussaint. With the wine, music, culture… ah, I’m getting wistful, and I only just got home.” He shook his head, chuckling. “Twenty minutes ago, in fact. It was quite a rush to prepare for the festivities, but I never miss out on a good ball.”

“Nor have I ever known you to,” said Regis, finally withdrawing his hands. He nodded apologetically to the girls, who had fallen into an awkward silence. “Forgive me, but may I have a few private words with my friend? Thank you, thank you. I will come and find you later.” Some more nodding, and then Dandelion had Regis to himself.

“A few pretty ones, there,” said Dandelion as he watched the girls take their leave. “Perhaps I’ll join you, when you go to find them later. That blonde one…”

“I’m sure you have questions for me,” said Regis, leaning against the food table and waiting patiently for Dandelion’s attention to return.

“Oh!” Dandelion turned back to him. “Yes, of course. It’s hard not to get distracted during event such as these. So many lovely faces, among other assets.” He quirked a lip. “So, why don’t you start at the beginning. I’m terribly curious to know how you stumbled into such a job.”

“Geralt gave me a push,” said Regis, looking once more to his fiance, who had returned to his beloved seafood platter and was now picking at a sectioned lamprey. “Or rather, he announced to the queen that I should be considered for the job during a meeting. It was all very dramatic. You would have loved it, Dandelion.”

“I know my readers are going to love it,” said Dandelion with a chuckle. “More details, Regis. I’m going to need them.”

“You’ll be working this biography of Geralt’s into an epic romance with a political draw, yes? And with plenty of embellishments, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

Regis chuckled at his shamelessness. “Very well. I’ll give you the longer version.”

Dandelion held up a finger, looking over his shoulder. “Just a moment. I should greet Geralt first. Oh, look at him, already swaying! The celebrations have barely started and he’s drunk.” Dandelion clucked his tongue. “I’ll be back momentarily, Regis. Start thinking of grandiloquent ways to describe your ascent into nobility to me while I’m gone!”

“I’ll do so,” said Regis, politely inclining his head. He watched Dandelion slip his way through crowds of carousing people to reach Geralt. Geralt’s face lit up at the sight of Dandelion and Regis smiled privately to himself, returning to his pastries.

One of the women made a tentative return, and he engaged her in casual conversation while he waited for Dandelion’s return. She asked if vampires subsisted on blood and if they truly slept in a coffin throughout the day and rose at night – all sorts of things, and Regis answered her curiosities with great, winding diatribes against the various myths humans had perpetrated against vampires. She seemed shocked to hear that humans that were bitten did not, in fact, turn into vampires (and perhaps a little disappointed).

Their conversation ceased when Dandelion finally returned. The enthusiasm had disappeared from his face. He was now drawn and pale, a tremble rocking his shoulders. Regis thought perhaps one of his ill-chosen beaus had found him and was now seeking revenge, but even for Dandelion, this seemed a bit of an overreaction to such an event.

“Geralt collapsed,” he said between panting breaths, and ice filled Regis’ chest. He didn’t say it in a manner that suggested Geralt had collapsed merely from overindulging in alcohol.

“Where is he?” he asked, keeping his tone even so to not draw more attention to them than they already had.

“Hallway.” Dandelion gestured for Regis to follow him, and Regis did so at a speed walk.

They exited through a side door and stepped into a hallway that was just as opulent as the ballroom beyond. A little ways down, they found Geralt on the floor, curled up on his side with a hand twisted loosely over his stomach. His breaths were shallow, but present. Regis dropped to his knees before Geralt and gently drew the man into his arms, who groaned softly and pressed his face into Regis’ clavicle, seeking reprieve from whatever it was that ailed him.

“If you can, tell me what you need,” he said, stroking Geralt’s forehead, finding it hot to the touch. “Can you manage that?"

Geralt swallowed. It was a dry sound, like leaves being stepped on on a hot day. “S-something in the wine,” he said with difficulty. “Get… get Vesemir.”

“Dandelion," said Regis.

Dandelion jumped to attention.

“Go to Vesemir,” said Regis, carefully sliding an arm under Geralt’s legs and hoisting him into the air. “Tell him what has happened and bring him to Geralt’s chambers. Mention there was something in the wine.”

“R-right,” stuttered Dandelion, hurrying to do as Regis had instructed.

Regis spoke to Geralt as he carried him upstairs, saying everything that came to his mind in an effort to keep him alert. If he fell unconscious, Regis was afraid he wouldn’t be able to be roused.

He laid his prone form gently down in his chamber bed. Regis sat down beside him, cooling his hot skin with his palms, stroking his fingers through his hair. The contact gradually eased away the harsh edge in Geralt’s breathing.

“Do you have any idea what might have been in the goblet?” asked Regis once he was sure Geralt was relaxed enough to speak coherently.

“Tasteless,” Geralt mumbled. “Poison.”

Regis had thought Witcher’s immune to poison. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

“I’ll be sure to tell Vesemir.”

He looked anxiously to the door. Vesemir’s room wasn’t far. Any moment now, Dandelion would arrive with him in tow. Geralt would survive this, Regis assured himself. He’d known Witcher’s to recover from injuries that would kill a normal man in an instant.

On the other hand, this was not an injury; this was poison, and it could be eating away at his internal organs as they sat there, waiting for help to arrive. It could be too late. Geralt could be- he could be-

Regis inhaled a trembling breath. He checked that Geralt was still aware. He was.

Footsteps thumped down the hallway and up to Geralt’s chamber. Dandelion and Vesemir barrelled inside, both of whom looked harried and ashen-faced. Vesemir strode right up to the bed and wrenched open Geralt’s mouth, pouring a viscous red liquid into it that Geralt struggled to swallow.

“Golden oriole; it’s an anti-toxin,” Vesemir explained, pocketing the now empty vial and detaching a water skin from his belt. He popped out the cork and poured a small amount into Geralt’s gullet. “Whatever Geralt’s poisoned with, this should force it out of his system. We must hope it hasn’t done any mortal damage, in the meantime.”

Geralt coughed and shuddered. His eyes fluttered shut.

Regis started to tell him not to fall asleep, but Vesemir stopped him.

“Let him rest. Staying awake will only pain him.”

Reluctantly, Regis did as Vesemir requested. "I- I didn't think witcher's could get poisoned," he said quietly.

"I'd expect that misconception from the common rabble, but you're part of the Queen's inner circle now: you should know we aren't the Gods people like to claim we are," said Vesemir gruffly. "We can be poisoned, just like any other. Our bodies can only purge so much."

Regis swallowed, saying nothing.

Vesemir rose from the bed. “I want you two…” Vesemir gave Dandelion's ridiculous magenta pantaloons a meaningful look. “On second thought, just you, Regis. I want you to discreetly tell the queen what has happened and give her all the information about it that you have. You, Dandelion, I want to find the court sorceress. She’ll be able to find out what poison was used and then we’ll know if another antidote needs to be arranged.”

There was nothing Regis wanted to do less than leave Geralt. He was afraid of what would happen in his absence. He was afraid of Geralt getting worse while he wasn’t around to comfort him, to be there if he-

But Regis knew the sooner he told the Queen, the sooner the perpetrated was likely to be caught, so he fought back the urge to argue and left after giving Geralt a quick kiss on the forehead.

The perpetrator would be found and they would face consequences for what had been done to Geralt. Regis would make sure of it.

* * *

The Queen maintained an air of calm and poise until the very end of the ball. All the while she sent all waiters currently not on duty downstairs to be questioned and directed the kitchen staff to gather every goblet that had been used so they could be tested for poisons. Eskel was instructed to sleuth out just who had poisoned the wine in the meantime, and Regis trailed around behind him as he sniffed his way around the ballroom, offering comments and observations. He found little relevant to Geralt's situation. With so many bodies in such a compact space, the perpetrator had chosen an ideal time to act. The merrymaking had obscured any evidence they could have collected.

When the ball reached its conclusion at midnight, he and Eskel went downstairs to sit in on the questioning of the waiters. The kitchen staff were to be questioned next as a precaution. Anyone who exhibited even the slightest hint of anxiety was kept behind, while the rest were permitted to return home.

Regis didn’t get to return to Geralt until the early hours of the morning and he had little to show for his efforts. A few imprisoned waiters and not a bit of physical evidence. There were still hundreds of goblets to be tested, and even once they had located the used goblet, there was a very small chance anything of use would be found. Answers were going to be slow to come, if they came at all, and Regis’ skin prickled with anxiety at the thought of Geralt’s attacker attempting to finish the job in the meantime. Assuming Geralt pulled through, that was (a thought that made him nauseous whenever he had it).

Geralt was currently in stable condition. The poison had been identified as Giant centipede venom by the court sorceress, which could be eliminated by the Golden oriole. To have swallowed such potent venom, however, would have undoubtedly caused internal damage. The sorceress was working around the clock to prevent Geralt from passing from internal haemorrhaging and organ failure. She wasn’t yet able to say if Geralt would overcome the damage rent by the poison.

Everyone was anxious and tired. Dandelion was sitting in a chair by Geralt’s bed, his hands white in his lap. Regis sat at Geralt’s opposite side, on the mattress, and idly stroked Geralt’s hair. Eskel paced the floor. Vesemir worked tirelessly at producing more Golden oriole. Lambert muttered about him being an idiot and left during the first rays of dawn to question the remaining prisoners himself. Queen Meve paced a little ways from Eskel. The sorceress, Margarita Laux-Antille, worked herself to the point of having a nose bleed, and refused to take a break when asked.

“He’ll probably die if I stop,” said Margarita, giving a very put-upon sigh. “I’ve been sitting in here for hours and I’m not about to let it be for nothing.”

Geralt groaned softly in his sleep a few times but was otherwise silent. It was a small consolation he wasn’t awake to feel the pain.

“Poisoning a Witcher,” muttered Vesemir as he ground ingredients together in a thoroughly used stone basin. “Never would have I imagined such a thing happening. Not in my day, that’s for sure.”

Regis’ gut twisted with guilt; he knew exactly why Geralt had been targeted. How naive he had been to think Geralt’s status would be able to protect him from prejudice.

“I strongly suspect Geralt isn’t the target,” said Regis quietly. “This was done to get to me, to compel me to step down.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Queen Meve with a huff.

“I have no intention to,” said Regis. There were other routes of action he could take, routes that would leave himself the sole target of any opposition. 

“Well, good,” said Meve, turning on a heel and heading for the door. “I will root out your most vocal adversaries and have them questioned and their rooms searched. Come, Eskel. I'll need your assistance.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Regis spoke soft, soothing things into Geralt's ear when he moaned once again.

“It has to have been someone close to the queen,” muttered Dandelion. “A waiter wouldn't have done something like this on their own prerogative. They see Witcher’s as veritable Gods. The same can’t be said for the queen’s inner circle.”

“I agree,” said Regis, glancing up. “They see Witcher’s at their most quotidian. The average person would not know Witcher’s are susceptible to poison.”

“She has quite the large inner circle.” Dandelion worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "That's a lot of rooms to be searched, and a lot of interviews to be conducted, and on people with a _lot_ of power."

Regis offered him a reassuring look. “Few have been as vocally opposed as Sir Norringon and Lady Jeanna. There is a good chance they were the perpetrators, or perhaps otherwise involved in some manner. I'm sure queen Meve will start with them.”

“I hope you’re right. I doubt they would fail next time.”

“Assuming they fail this time,” muttered Margarita, and Regis grimaced.

Vesemir had to rouse Geralt to pour another vial of antitoxin down his throat, who swallowed it like a dehydrated man struggling to keep down their first few sips of water. Some of it slid down his chin and soaked into his shirt. Regis wiped him clean with a handkerchief.

“What’s the time?” slurred Geralt, his eyelids fluttering.

“Early morning,” answered Regis.

Through great effort, Geralt managed to meet Regis' eyes. There was more red in Geralt's sclera than white.

“What happened?” he asked, sounding disorientated. 

"You don't remember?" asked Regis. It was a troubling development. He hated to think the poison was affecting his brain function.

Geralt gave a slow shake of his head. "There was a... ball..."

Regis debated over whether he should tell Geralt the truth, afraid that he would panic, but Dandelion made his decision for him.

“You were poisoned, Geralt,” said Dandelion, leaning in closer, his voice shaking. “Centipede venom.”

“Giant Centipede venom,” Vesemir corrected him from the floor, already working on his next batch of Golden oriole.

“By who?” Geralt croaked. 

“We don’t know yet,” said Dandelion. “We’re searching. People are being questioned as we speak.”

“Am… is everything going… well?” he asked, already subsiding into sleep, struggling to keep a grip on his last threads of consciousness. No one managed to answer him before he was too far gone to comprehend their words. He fell still, his head lulling into Regis’ thigh.

Hearing him speak brought some relief to Regis. At least he was well enough to maintain a conversation, however brief. That was more than Regis had dared hope for so soon into his treatment.

The day dragged on with little change. Neither Eskel nor the Queen returned, and Lambert only stepped into the room briefly before deciding to go skulking around the castle in search of clues.

Geralt’s condition very gradually improved under Vesemir and Margarita’s care, and his breaths started to even by noon. The poison had ravaged his insides, but it seemed not to the point of no return. Regis could have cried tears of joy had he been prone to such things. As he was not, he instead laid his head over Geralt's chest and closed his eyes.

Regis didn’t know when exactly it happened, but he fell asleep at Geralt’s side.

* * *

“Regis.”

His first comprehensible thought was that his back hurt. He must have slept on it wrong, was his second thought, and Regis slowly peeled open his eyes to investigate the source of the pain.

He only pondered it for half a second before remembering where he was and why he was there.

His gaze dropped to Geralt, who was looking up at him with glassy eyes. Panic seized him for all of a moment before Geralt blinked, confirming he wasn’t looking down at a corpse.

Regis mentally berated himself for his foolishness. Of course he wasn’t dead. His heart beat was thudding away in his chest, slow and regular, and his breaths warmed Regis’ forearm.

“Have you been up long?” he asked with audible self-reproach. He would have preferred to be awake to greet Geralt when Geralt had regained consciousness. He could see Dandelion too had fallen asleep and Margarita had nodded off and was currently lounging her head on the bedside table, but that did little to assuage his guilt. The only one who was still awake was Vesemir, still sitting on the floor by his tools.

"No. Woke up a little while ago.” Geralt sounded tired. More tired than he had ever sounded before. He barely managed to lift a hand to his face and wipe away the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. “Looks like a lot happened while I was asleep.”

“Indeed.” Regis slid his hand into Geralt’s, entwining their fingers. The warmth of Geralt’s palm felt good. “It took a considerable amount of time to get you stable. I’m – I’m very relieved to see our efforts paid off, to say the least.”

Laughter whistled out of Geralt, followed by a groan. He wouldn’t be doing that again anytime soon. “Feel like someone took a pitchfork to my chest and twisted.”

“It’ll be like that for some time,” piqued in Vesemir. “Imbibing such potent poison would have killed most Witcher’s. Those extra mutations saved your life.”

“They were a pain in the ass to get, so they might as well come in handy,” murmured Geralt.

Vesemir rose and detached his water skin from his belt, pressing it insistently to Geralt’s lips. Geralt only managed a few tentative sips before complaining that his stomach was full (more likely, the internal swelling made it feel as much). Regis watched them and it was as though he were watching a father with his son.

“You’ll have to drink more later,” said Vesemir. “We can’t let you get dehydrated. You’ve been sweating like a bull.”

“Don’t feel dehydrated.”

“You’ll start noticing it later, just you wait.” Vesemir resumed sitting on the floor. For an old Witcher who had practically made complaining of creaking bones and phantom aches a sport, he managed to be very spry when one of his wards was in danger.

Geralt flapped a hand in feeble dismissal. He looked to have all the energy of a wet kitten.

“Where’s the queen?” asked Geralt, now staring at the slumbering Margarita.

“Still looking for the perpetrator, I suspect,” said Regis. He looked at the window. It was day. If he had to guess, it had been a good forty-six hours since Geralt had been poisoned. No wonder he had fallen asleep. And no wonder Margarita had too, seeing as she had been using her magic for almost all those forty-six hours. It would be some time before she was able to resume.

Geralt sighed. “Hope they find them. Would rather not go through that again.”

“Nor would I,” said Regis, and he swallowed around a lump in his throat. They were going to need to talk about the status of their relationship when this was all over. If Geralt was to be safe, they needed to be more private about their affection for each other.

“Can’t remember where I fell unconscious,” murmured Geralt. “Wasn’t the ballroom, was it?”

“The hallway,” said Regis.

“Good.” Limbs shaking and straining, Geralt slowly rolled himself onto his side, curling around Regis' legs, his head coming to rest on Regis’ lap. His skin was still feverishly warm. Regis touched his palm to Geralt’s forehead and Geralt moaned in relief.

The door creaked open. All three of them looked up to see who had arrived. Dandelion was roused by the sound, making a variety of alarmed snorting noises as he regained consciousness.

Queen Meve stepped into the room with her usual grace and closed the door behind her.

“We have found a lead,” she said promptly, to which a now awake Dandelion clapped in approval. “But withhold any celebrations,” said Meve, giving Dandelion a pointed look. “We are still following it and it may be some time before we come to a certain conclusion.”

“Well,” said Dandelion, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “That’s still good news, right? I thought for sure the trail would have gone cold.”

“It may well have done, had Lambert not stepped in,” said Meve. “His methods are… extreme, but effective.”

Geralt guffawed from the bed. “Give him my thanks and tell him he can ease up on their balls.”

Regis hoped that comment wasn’t meant _literally_.

“I’ll have someone relay that message for you,” said the Queen dryly. “How are you feeling, Geralt? You look less peakish.”

“Sure don’t feel it,” mumbled Geralt.

“No, I expect you’ll be off your feet for a few weeks, if not months. That poison was no trifle, even for a Witcher.” She stepped further into the room and scrutinised the slumbering Margarita. The look was not one of disapproval, but rather concern. Leaders and their court sorceresses did tend to get close. “Has she been asleep long?” she asked.

“A few hours,” said Vesemir, heaving himself up off the floor to offer Queen Meve a short bow. Shorter than the Queen would usually expect, but these were informal circumstances. “I could move her to her quarters, if you like?”

“No,” said Meve. She touched her fingers lightly to her forehead, perhaps nursing a headache. It wouldn’t come as a surprise. Meve couldn’t have gotten much sleep, assuming she had slept at all. “She is needed here. She will leave only when Geralt is well enough to be left to heal on his own.”

“Any idea how long it'll take for him to get to that point?” asked Dandelion uncertainly. It wasn’t directed towards anyone in particular.

Regis, having previously worked as a barber-surgeon, and having witnessed Geralt heal from wounds on many an occasion, had a vague idea of how long it might take Geralt to reach stability. In any case, no one else was stepping up to answer, Dandelion was looking increasingly despondent, and Regis felt he should say _something_.

“I suspect Margarita will be able to return to her chambers by next week at the latest,” said Regis. Dandelion cast him a relieved smile.

It was only when Regis looked back down that he realised Geralt had fallen back to sleep. His face was devoid of its earlier tension. It was hard to say whether it was speaking to his friends or his lengthy slumber that had smoothed away the tight lines that had gathered on his forehead.

“I think I need a quick wash,” said Dandelion, sniffing an armpit and wrinkling his nose. “While I’m in the bathroom, could you get something from the kitchen Regis? I think everyone here could use something to eat.”

“No, no, Regis is acting as Geralt’s pillow at the moment. I’ll arrange food,” said Vesemir. He lightly patted Margarita’s shoulder. “I imagine she’ll want something when she wakes as well. Everyone likes omelettes, don’t they? I’ll get her an omelette.”

When she stirred, Regis expected she would be hungry enough to eat just about anything Vesemir put in front of her. He had seen enough mages collapse while using magic to know the fatigue it could cause.

Vesemir headed for the door. “I’ll be back shortly,” he called over his shoulder. “If you would like anything else, you’d best tell me now, because I won’t be making a second trip.”

“Fish would be nice,” said Dandelion. “But anything they have ready will do.”

Queen Meve followed at Vesemir’s heels. “I must take my leave as well, I’m afraid. There is still much work to be done.”

"Thank you for updating us, Your Majesty," said Regis gratefully.

Once the door had closed behind Queen Meve, Dandelion went to have his bath, and Regis was left alone with the slumbering Margarita and Geralt. He permitted himself to press a flurry of kisses to Geralt’s forehead now that they were alone, and he murmured against Geralt's ear about how very happy he was that he was okay, even if Geralt wasn’t awake to hear it. He had heard at least an impression of what was said to a sleeping person could penetrate ones subconscious. If nothing else, he hoped it would give Geralt pleasant dreams.


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Well, assuming I don't feel like doing an epilogue at some point. Sorry this took so long to get to. I hope this is a satisfactory ending to the story!

Thanks to Lambert's efforts, the person who had served the wine had been found. They were a young, baby-faced boy who was new to the kitchens. Certainly not someone Regis would have pinned as a renegade. He seemed even less so when Regis bore witness to his confession and saw him shaking so hard that his knees knocked together. Regis watched on while the boy explained to the Queen and the Queen’s various bulky interrogators that it was he who had served the wine to the Witcher - but only at the direction of what he had believed to be a superior! When asked who this superior was, he wasn’t able to give them a satisfactory answer, even while under great duress.

“I don’t know which one of the kitchen hands it was,” he said, looking about one more harsh word away from bursting into tears. “They handed me the bottle and told me it was for the Witcher, and that was it. I didn’t dare disappoint the Witcher, so I served it to him.” It was at this point that he started shuffling in his chair, perhaps trying to resist the urge to urinate himself from fear. “It was so busy that night that everything is a bit of a blur, but I know she had blonde hair. I remember that much. She- she definitely worked in the kitchen, since she wouldn’t have been able to get in otherwise.” He bit his lip. "I mean... I think so. I guess someone could have sneaked in, but..."

That was the extent of what they were able to get out of him. As the bulk of the palace staff had blonde hair, it being the most common hair colour in Rivia, it only narrowed down their suspects so much. And that was assuming the blonde-haired woman hadn't been an interloper. 

Questioning the underbelly of the city proved similarly fruitless. A great many shop keepers had giant centipede venom in their inventory due to the bulk of them on the countryside, and dozens of sales had been made on the week, and even the day of Geralt’s attempted murder. Slathering it under ones doorstep was a cheap and relatively harmless way to rid ones home of pests (something people had started doing with increasing regularity due to the recent plague), as centipede venom, like ethanol, dried up after a few days and became completely harmless. It was one of the few venom's to do so at such speed. All of this was something Geralt's attempted murderer had no doubt known about and counted on to hinder their investigation. 

None of the shopkeepers the Queen's men questioned could provide a description of _any_ of their past patrons. Or, at least, they _chose_ not to be forthcoming with details. That was a dead end as a dead end could get, and so the focus returned to the kitchen staff.

Regis found himself too busy to be of much help to the investigation. He had taken it upon himself to nurse Geralt back to health, dutiful lover that he was. The poison had left Geralt weak, and he needed help with daily tasks, such as eating, bathing, exercising, and... even using the bathroom, which neither of them particularly liked, but the alternative was Geralt using a bed pan and neither of them wanted to have to deal with cleaning the linen should an accident happen. 

Regis was the only one Geralt was willing to let help him. Anyone else was too great a source of embarrassment for him. Regis had already taken care of Geralt after their sessions (though not to quite this extent), so there was already an element of familiarity to him helping Geralt perform basic functions. It made tending to Geralt while he was so vulnerable easier on both of them.

When Geralt was well enough to start eating, it took great effort for him to keep the smallest of meals down. On several occasions Regis had needed to rush him to the bathroom so he could vomit into a basin rather than on bed sheets. A few times, he hadn’t gotten there fast enough, and Regis had spent the next fourteen minutes scrubbing the filth out of the floor and mattress. The room now smelt vaguely like stomach acid and peas.

On the positive side, he could now hold down full glasses of water, and if he ate in small increments he usually only vomited every other day. Some food had to be getting digested.

After two weeks of this, Regis noticed Geralt had lost some weight, eradicating what little fat he'd had on his stomach and thighs, but Regis figured that wasn’t anything to get worried about. He would be able to gain that weight back once he had healed enough to start eating regular meals.

It was also around his second week that Geralt started mild exercises. 'Exercises' being used loosely, of course. He would sit down on the floor, stretch and flex, do a couple of sit-ups, and then return to bed. Often he would walk about as well, but Geralt didn’t consider that exercise. ‘Everyone walks,’ is what he told Regis when Regis insisted walking counted as exercise. By his third week, Geralt was aiming to be functional enough to do push-ups. 

Throughout the passing weeks, Regis tried to find an opportunity to discuss their relationship. But he couldn't. It would have been better to nip it in the bud, get it out of the way, but he couldn't bring himself to broach the topic while Geralt was just so... happy to be alive, happy to be _with Regis_. Regis didn't want to take that away from him while he was still healing.

The Queen hwas making slow progress on finding the perpetrator. She would regularly have someone update Geralt and he on the progress they were making, assuring Regis that he need not focus on anything but Geralt's recovery.

The only time she did ask that Regis assist her was while Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir were unavailable due to arena obligations, and her interrogators - who doubled as guards - were occupied with keeping the peace in the stands. She didn’t ask a great deal of him. All he was required to do was stand in a corner of a dungeon cell and look intimidating while she spoke to a young woman with long blonde hair in braids. The woman was so plainly nervous that Regis half expected she would pass out should he approach her. If possible, he would keep a comfortable breadth between them. He had no desire to scare the poor thing, and he was sure, had she anything to do with Geralt’s poisoning, she hadn’t done it voluntarily. She looked much too timorous to be a mastermind.

“Alexia Gamerson,” said the Queen. Her voice was gentler than it should have been, considering this was an interrogation. “Everyone else I have spoken to has proven themselves innocent. You are the only one who has no alibi, and who has given different variations of what happened the night of the ball.”

The girl wasn’t able to meet her eye. She stared hard at her knees. Her thin legs were tucked under her, her pale skin turning pink against the hard stone. “I understand, your majesty,” she said, impeccably quiet.

“Have you anything to say in your defence?”

“No, your majesty,” said Alexia, sniffing. “It was me who gave the waiter the wine.”

Meve arched an eyebrow. Regis wore a similar expression. That had been  _quick_.

“I – I wouldn’t have lied before,” Alexia added, speaking hastily. “But I was afraid. I thought it would all go away if I just pretended it didn’t happen. I thought, the Witcher must be alive, so everything is okay now. A witcher wouldn't be downed by a mere poison. I-I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t dawdle, girl; you do yourself no favours,” said Meve. “Explain yourself, and quickly.”

“Of- of course, yes. I’m sorry, your gracious majesty.” Alexia’s throat bobbed. Her bright blue eyes had turned glassy. “The drink and food were arranged between six kitchen staff, and I was among those chosen for the task.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware. The others have been questioned. Go on.”

“Often we get requests from nobles for a specific beverage to be served. So when a – a man came and said the Witcher wished to have Beauclair Red served to him, I retrieved the bottle and handed it to the waiter that was nearest.”

“Do you know who the man was?”

“Um.” The woman rocked slightly on her knees. “Well, he didn’t really face me, so I didn’t get a good look. He just told me what I needed to do and left.”

“Do you remember anything at all?”

“I do remember that his hair was long and brown, in a pony tail. He had a nice voice, and what little I saw of his face was handsome.”

“What about his clothes?”

“Oh, he wore a cloak, which I thought was odd at the time, but it  _was_  a cold night." She nodded. "I’m sure he had armour on under it too, because I distinctly remember thinking he looked too bulky under the cloak to be wearing a doublet.”

“That sounds remarkably like Sir Norrington,” said Regis, though he had never known Sir Norrington to wear his hair in a ponytail.

“Sir Norrington?” Alexia’s lips pinched. “Yes, he- he rather did. In fact – yes, yes, I’m sure it was him!” He slapped her hands on her thighs. “I’m sure it was him, your majesty! He gave me the wine order!”

Regis was quite pleased with this conclusion. Queen Meve did not share his enthusiasm. A member of her council, her inner circle, was a  _terrible_  person to go rogue and would make her feel unsafe around her most trusted allies, but Regis greatly disliked Sir Norrington and didn’t much mind the idea of seeing him brought to justice. He was a vile man.

“Are you absolutely certain?” the Queen asked, and Alexia nodded vigorously.

“I am! It has to be him! I know he doesn’t like the vampire; I’ve heard him ranting about him, and I wouldn’t have accepted a request from anyone less than the queens inner circle.” The latter part of the reply was clearly tacked on in an attempt to rid her of culpability, but the Queen didn’t comment upon it, merely pinched the bridge of her nose in a thumb and forefinger and shook her head.

Meve turned to Regis. “A brunette man in a cloak and armour. Surely one of the shopkeepers will remember _that_. We will have to question those men again more thoroughly, see if we can get appearances to corroborate.”

"Last I heard, they weren't exactly forthcoming with details," said Regis.

"We'll bring Lambert out again." Queen Meve looked none too happy about having to do this. "This time, I hope he will show more restraint."

“For their sake, I too hope so,” said Regis, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “In the mean time, shall I take Sir Norrington aside and have a chat with him, your grace?”

“No,” said Meve, rising back to her full height. “There are proper procedures to these things. The evidence must be compiled first and then his family must be gathered while we level the charges, as they will face exile for his actions.”

“Must they?” asked Regis.

“That is how things are done when one of the inner circle betrays their queen. All members are aware of this stipulation before they’re initiated.”

The thought that a family would be made to rebuild their life from the ground up because of the actions of one man didn’t please Regis, but he nodded his understanding regardless. Expressing his displeasure with the Queen’s decision wouldn’t change anything, and might even prompt Meve to deny him attendance to the judgement.

“You may return to your duties,” said Meve to Alexia, who hurried to her feet, bowing low to the Queen. “Under watch, of course. A fellow kitchen hand will be accompanying you for two weeks to ensure you don’t flee the city. If you try, there will be consequences.”

“I understand, your majesty,” said Alexia, bowing again, lower this time. Unnecessarily low, Regis thought. The woman had clearly never spoken to royalty before.

Meve gestured for Alexia to leave, and she did so at a run.

The Queen sighed in a way that suggested she would have benefited from a long, hot bath. The past few weeks had taken a lot out of her. The balancing act between playing host to the Nilfgaardian’s, maintaining her country, and seeking Geralt’s attempted murderer couldn’t have been easy to maintain, and now she had to prepare to oust one of her closest and most reliable advisers. As big an ass as Norrington was, he wasn’t going to be easy to replace.

“You can return to Geralt, Regis,” said Meve. “It will be a few days before the preparations are ready.”

“Are you certain you no longer need my help?” he asked, ever the gentleman.

“I am. Go on, Regis.”

Regis left the dungeon and he was glad to do so. He wasn’t fond of the place. The scent of old blood intermingling with wet stone always stuck in his nostrils and reminded him of the time  _he_  had spent down there. 

Geralt was doing exercises when he entered his chambers. His lunch sat half-eaten on his bed-side table. 

“My apologies for the wait,” said Regis as he set himself up in a chair, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. Geralt always refused him when he tried to help him exercise. Watching was all he was permitted to do. “The queen had me stand in on the interrogation of a young woman. We now know the identity of your assailant.”

Geralt sat up straight at this news. “Who was it?”

“Our favourite person, Sir Norrington.”

Geralt shrugged, like this wasn’t terribly important information. “Figured as much.”

“Mmm, rather anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Regis chuckled. “Be sure to tell him as much at the judging. The queen will, of course, expect you to be there, but I’m sure she will permit you to forgo the doublet this time.”

Geralt quirked a lip. “Queen Meve the Merciful.”

“Don’t let her catch you saying that or doublets will become mandatory for all.”

“Noted.” Geralt stumbled his way to his feet, wiping sweat off his brow with his shirt. Regis wrinkled his nose at him.

“Must you do that, Geralt? We have a perfectly serviceable bathroom.” He stood to start ushering Geralt to said bathroom. “Come, lets get you bathed. I refuse to lie in bed with you while you smell of body odour.”

“You  _like_  my smell.”

“In small doses, yes. Not when it’s quite this potent.”

Geralt deliberately rubbed a sweaty palm on Regis’ face and Regis recoiled in disgust. He made sure to deliver retribution in the form of lavender scented soap – Geralt’s least favourite scent, and something that would cling to his skin for at least a few hours.

“Geralt,” said Regis while patting his back dry with a towel. The scent of lavender permeated the air.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been thinking about our relationship.” The words left his mouth in a slurry, somehow both premeditated and unplanned. He had been meaning to bring up their relationships for weeks now, but there had been little forethought to initiating it at this moment.

Perhaps it was the sight of Geralt drooping on his stool, warm and relaxed, that prompted him to do it. He  _would_  be more receptive to suggestion this way, or so Regis liked to think.

“Oh?”

Regis hesitated for almost a full minute before speaking. “I believe our relationship would benefit from more discretion.” As he spoke, he dragged his fingers through Geralt’s hair in that way Geralt liked. A deliberate effort to ease Geralt into his proposal. “That is to say, we should keep this relationship private, as we did during its beginning stages. We should be less attractive political targets that way.”

“No,” said Geralt simply.

Regis frowned down at him. “I don’t wish to endanger you again, Geralt. This must happen.”

“No,” said Geralt again, much to Regis’ chagrin.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the-“

“I do understand. Just have no intention of obliging you.”

“You almost  _died_ , Geralt,” he said, a little louder and harsher than he had intended. Acknowledging Geralt’s mortality always made his gut twist into knots. “This is no time to be stubborn.”

“I said no.”

“Geralt-“

“No,” said Geralt one more time, turning in his chair and grabbing Regis by the collar of his shirt, drawing him down until he was eye level.

Dislodging himself would have been a triviality. His strength far exceeded Geralt’s, but Geralt’s frown kept him pinned in place. That was not an expression Geralt had directed at him in a long time.

“Pretending that we don’t have a relationship isn’t something I want to do, or something I conceivably _could_ do.” He brushed their mouths together, speaking against his parted lips. “If you’re really that worried, prepare my meals, pour my drinks, spend every hour of every day with me, but don’t ask me to hide our relationship.”

Regis licked his lips, and Geralt’s – involuntarily – at the same time. He shuddered at the softness of them on his tongue.

“I can’t force you,” he conceded quietly.

“No, you can’t,” said Geralt. “Not if you want to continue sharing my bed.”

Regis’ shoulders dipped in defeat. “Alright, Geralt. I concede.” He sighed and shook his head. "But I still think it foolish to sacrifice your safety for me."

"I'm not sacrificing anything." Geralt released Regis' collar to glide his hands over Regis' chest. "I would be far worse off without you. Regis, this-" He gestured vaguely between them, "Our relationship has been one of the few things in my life that has come easy to me. It's the only thing I'm wholly content with. I don't know how I ever survived without it."

Regis swallowed around a tightening throat. "You're making me feel quite the fool, Geralt."

"Good, because you were acting like one." Geralt brought their lips together once more, speaking against Regis'. "I never much cared about being a Witcher, but I care about being _yours_."

* * *

The day of the sentencing arrived. Norrington, along with his family, were made to walk into the throne room and bow to the Queen before taking their places on the floor. Norrington, naturally, sat at the head of the group, and would have done so even if someone else had been on the receiving end of a sentencing. The head of the house always sat at the front.

The family consisted of one daughter that looked no older than fifteen, and one son who was just old enough to sport stubble. His wife had her head so low that it nearly brushed her knees. An old man who had only a smattering of hair on either side of his head sat next to the children, discreetly folding his fingers over the shaking hand of his granddaughter.

It was a pitiful display, and one intended to humiliate. While the attendees were relatively small in number, standing in a semi-circle around the accused, it was apparent the Norrington’s were still deeply affected and aggrieved. The red on the wife’s cheeks stood out on her otherwise pallid complexion. Her husband looked similarly distressed, though whether it was from embarrassment or anger was hard to say. The daughter had tears in her eyes. The sons lips were pursed and trembling.

The Queen, meanwhile, sat tall and imposing in her throne.

Geralt stood nearby, nearly completely healed, and gazed down at them impassively. The Queen had positioned him directly in their line of sight. Norrington’s failure was being flaunted.

It was well deserved retribution, and yet Regis' reigning emotion was sympathy for Norrington's family. They had done nothing, and yet they would suffer for the sins of the head of their house.

“Sir Jarek Norrington," began Queen Meve, her booming voice echoing down the hall. "I bring you and your family before me to accuse you of treason, of poisoning Geralt of Rivia with centipede venom in an attempt to bring ruination upon the vampire Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. Should you be found guilty, your wife, Maude Norrington, and your children, Danica and Maciej, will be exiled, while you will be hung. We have a woman here, Alexia Gamerson, who will attest to your guilt.” She gestured to Alexia, who was shaking despite the fact she wasn’t the one on trial. She then introduced a thin, blonde man with buckteeth with a wave of her hand. “This man, Aron, sold centipede venom on the week of the ball. He agrees with Alexia that it was you who brought said venom.”

Aron, for his part, didn’t look in the least bit nervous. In fact, he was grinning ear to ear, peering around as though the Queen herself had invited him for a tour of the palace.

“You will, of course, be given the opportunity to prove your innocence,” continued Meve. “After these two provide their testimonies.”

Norrington raised his head. Sweat clung to his hairline. “Your majesty, I- I would never- I am faithful to you, to my country.”

“Silence.”

Norrington’s mouth shut with a clack of teeth.

“You aren’t to speak until the evidence has been given. Is that understood?”

"Yes, your majesty."

"Good." Meve gestured Alexia forward. “Come, girl. Give your evidence.”

“Y-yes your most gracious majesty.” Alexia bowed so low that her plaited hair brushed the floor. “On the day of the ball, I was given a bottle of Beauclair red and told it was for the Witcher. The man who made this request was undoubtedly Sir Norrington, your majesty. The appearance matches, and hearing him speak now, the similarities in their voice are unmistakable.” She clasped her sweaty hands together. “I had also overheard him ranting about the vampire and the vampires relationship with Master Witcher Geralt on many occasions. He clearly harbours great dislike for Mister Regis.”

She retreated back into the crowd the moment she was permitted to do so.

“Now,” said the Queen, and Aron bounded forward before she had the opportunity to call upon him.

“Shall I begin, your majesty?” he asked gleefully.

The Queen blinked in mild bewilderment. “Yes, please do. And where necessary, please provide physical evidence.”

Aron nodded vigorously and reached into his shoulder bag, drawing out a handful of papers and one shiny gold coin.

“Well, your majesty, Sir Norrington approached me a few days before the ball. Guess he wanted to get things in order early, huh? Anyway, he asked me what venom would be the most discreet and what would happen if it were to be imbibed. So I answered. I said, giant centipede venom, sir, because it's very popular these days and doesn't carry much of a smell, and extended contact causes ones soft bits to start breaking down. That's why it works so well on rats. Though mostly I just wanted to get rid of some that I had. I always have a surplus of centipede venom due to how much is in a single poison gland.” He grinned broadly, glancing at the Queen for further instruction. 

“Continue,” said Meve.

“Right,” said Aron. “Right, so, I told him the potion would be fifty coppers, and he said alright, and he reached into his pouch and withdrew a handful of coins. Some of it was gold and some of it was coppers. The coppers looked kind of out of place among all that gold, and kind of dirty, but money’s money, right?” He shrugged. “He gave me the coppers and I handed him the venom. He must have been nervous, though, because his hands were shaking really hard, and I guess that’s how I got lucky enough for him to drop a gold coin as he was leaving.” He brandished the aforementioned gold coin with undue pride. “Which the queen has assured me I can keep! I almost always trade in coppers, so it was a nice surprise!”

“The coin,” interjected a man with glasses as thick as his southern accent. “Is a Mariborian crown, which are not commonly found in the north. The Norrington’s are descended from Southerner’s, however, which would explain why they have them in their possession.”

“Right, right,” said Aron. “And, uh, I keep a log of my inventory, which I probably should have shown first, but anyway-“ He dropped his coin back into his bag and unfolded a piece of parchment, upon which were the hastily scribbled names of various poisons. “See it? It’s right under arsenic. My supplier is friends with a witcher, and he's never short on stock. I think those glands keep on producing after death, because sometimes he offers me _barrels_ of the stuff, and that's just-“

“That will suffice,” interrupted Meve.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course your gracious majesty.”

Aron withdrew, and not without reluctance.

The Queen turned her attention back on Norrington, who had not a hint of colour left in his face. Even his lips were devoid of their usual pink tinge. His mouth was hanging open, but he did not speak.

“Sir Norrington,” said Meve. “You may now state your defence.”

Norrington gave a slow, dry lick of his lips and straightened his shoulders. It took him a long moment to recover his voice. “I… I don’t know what to say, your majesty; that all sounds very damning, but I did not do it. I d-didn’t, and I will go to my death saying as much. I am loyal to you and I always will be.” He blinked rapidly. He looked just about ready to cry. "I swear on my mothers grave that I did not make an attempt on the Witcher's life."

“That is not a defence,” said Meve coolly. “You will provide one or we will proceed to the sentencing without it.”

“But what am I to say!” Norrington cried. “I have no defence! No alibi! I know simply telling you that I spent the evening at the ball and nothing more will not suffice! I-I- I don’t understand how a Mariborian crown reached this man’s hands, and I do not understand why they claim it is me. God, my family, they’re going to- I-“ He cut off with a strangled, pained sound. Norrington’s son reached out and placed a soothing hand on his father’s shoulder. His face was just as pale as his fathers, and his lips still trembled. All that filled the room for several long, tense seconds was the sound of Sir Norrington’s failed attempts to recover his composure.

Slowly, the son stood and stated quite calmly, “It was not my father. It was me.”

There were plenty of gasps – Regis’ was among them. As was Norrington’s, who’s head shot up so fast that his neck cracked. He gazed up at his son, his eyes wide, horror struck, and somehow he looked even more distraught than he had a moment ago.

“My father is right,” continued Maciej in a voice that was steadily growing stronger, more confident. “We cannot allow monsters to infiltrate our ranks. They are dangerous; they kill for sport; they use us as a food source, and even this so called ‘honourable vampire’ would bleed us all dry had he the opportunity.” He gestured at Geralt, growing incensed. “And this Witcher defiles himself daily with the vampire! It is beyond comprehension why he would soil himself in such a manner, but I do know such impropriety is deserving of death!”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. Regis did not share his anger. He was, more than anything else, dispirited. The boy was only a teenger, still living at home, and his father had poisoned him with his tirades at a time where the boy was young and impressionable and prone to poor decision making. He had thrown away his life for  _nothing_.

The realisation of his culpability in his sons death was dawning on Norrington’s face.

Regis knew that pain, that guilt. It had been a regular companion of his following his decision to abstain from blood drinking.

“If I must die for doing what is right, then so be it,” finished Maciej, lifting his chin in defiance, his fear belied only by the trembling in his shoulders.

“I have done nothing to you,” said Regis. He could not help himself. “And nor would have I ever done anything to you.”

Maciej sneered at him. "Do not speak to me, vampire."

Geralt placed a hand on Regis’ arm before he could reply. Regis looked over his shoulder at him. “It’s done, Regis," he whispered. "The boy has sealed his fate. There is nothing more to be done.”

Regis swallowed hard. He stepped back into the crowd, into Geralt's waiting arms, and fell silent. 

The Queen slowly stood from her throne. Silence fell over her subjects. “Maciej Norrington has taken responsibility for the attempted murder. He is to be hung by the neck until dead at noon tomorrow. May the gods have mercy on his soul.”

The wail that cut through the air was so anguished, so broken that Regis knew he would never be able to banish it from his memory. The boys mother collapsed at her son’s feet, reaching for him as he was taken away, crying and yelling and punctuating his name with screams. Norrington said not a word. He stared down at the floor, as defeated as a man could possibly be. His daughter was incoherent with grief behind him.

Watching the young Maciej Norrington, a boy not even a fraction of his age, be lead down to the dungeons was a bitter victory.

He and Geralt remained in bed on the day of the hanging. They lay among the disarray of quilts, their limbs entwined and their foreheads touching, and while entangled in that bed, they pretended for a little while there was nothing else in the world but them.

* * *

Needless to say, Sir Norrington was no longer a part of the Queen’s inner circle. He and what remained of his family moved away from the Rivian capital despite having no exile to compel them, and no one saw hide nor hair of them again, which was probably for the best.

It took a long time for their lives to regain some semblance of normalcy. Geralt hadn’t fully recovered from the poisoning until several months later, and even then, his stomach troubled him on the odd occasion.

They learned through one unfortunate evening at a restaurant run by Zerrikanians that Geralt couldn’t tolerate spicy foods like he used to. A shame for Regis, seeing as spicy foods, particularly the kind of spicy that left humans dripping from every orifice, were his very favourite kind of cuisine. They now had to eat separate meals rather than sharing. On the positive side of things, this meant Geralt no longer stole food off his plate when he assumed Regis wasn’t looking.

Their sessions resumed once Geralt was well enough to tolerate them. They started off slow and gentle, much to Geralt’s dismay, and worked their way back up to where they had been prior to Geralt’s incapacitation. A few times, Geralt tried to prompt him into longer sessions by acting out, but he ceased this behaviour after Regis tied him to the bed, put a cock ring on him and a dildo up his ass, and left him there while he tended to his duties.

It was well after the incident with the Norrington’s was behind them that Regis submitted a request for his first major change to how the alienage was run. Thus far he had started to get unemployed monsters jobs, fix some housing, and provide more privy’s, but those changes were a trifle compared to the request he had asked the Queens chamberlain to relay to her this time.

He wanted the gate open. Not permanently, perhaps, but for a select number of hours a day, and for a select number of monsters. Humans could go in and monsters could go out. 

The guards posted at the gate would remain, of course, and any monsters that had displayed violent tendencies in the past would have to earn the privilege through hard work and good behaviour over the course of a year. The other monsters would need to have been working among the humans for at least three monsters before they were deemed safe enough to be let out on their own. Young children, with supervision, would be allowed to attend schooling. He believed these reasonable expectations, at least for the time being. Change had to be implemented in baby steps.

Regis thought he had outlined his request very well. He was confident in his work. That did not, however, stop him from pacing the bedroom while he awaited a response from the Queen. If she rejected his proposal, he wasn’t sure how he was to proceed. Every request he had made up until now had been to set the groundwork for his current proposal. Rejection meant he would have to completely re-think the future he had envisioned for the alienage and the monsters there within, and that future would be considerably bleaker than the one he was trying to set into motion now.

It was a miracle he didn’t manage to wear a hole through the floorboards with how fast he was pacing, going back and forth, back and forth, occasionally travelling in mist form when he became absentminded. Geralt watched him from his desk, having apparently abandoned the book he was reading.

“Calm down, would you?” Geralt folded his arms. “Pacing isn’t going to make Meve give you an answer any quicker, unless you think going fast enough will enable you to change the space time continuum.”

Regis paused just long enough to cast him an amused look. “How long did it take you to come up with that one, Geralt?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Geralt picked at the cover of his book. “Thought I might make a joke about wearing a hole through the floor, but that one’s cliché.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of your efforts.”

“Thank you. I do try to please.”

The pacing slowed a fraction. Regis decided to make up for his decline in speed by glancing periodically at the door.

“I could always talk to her, you know,” suggested Geralt.

“Oh, no,” said Regis, lifting his hands in a gesture of refusal. “She needs ample time to consider my proposal. I’ve no desire to rush her decision.”

“A rushed decision wouldn’t necessarily be ‘no’.”

“It is, however, _more likely_  to be no.”

Geralt stretched his legs out before himself. “Then do something with me to get your mind off the proposal. A game of gwent, maybe?”

Regis came to an abrupt stop.

A game of gwent. He could do with such a diversion.

“Can’t say I’ll be much of a partner,” he told Geralt while pulling up a chair to join him at the desk. “But I will play as well as my restlessness permits.”

Geralt retrieved their decks from the shelf, handing Regis his and shuffling his own. “Care to make a wager?” he asked.

“Are you trying to take advantage of this poor, feeble old man, Geralt?”

“You’re a spry four-hundred-year-old, and to answer your question: yes.” Geralt laid the cards on the table. “I win, I get a session tomorrow.”

“You merely have to ask, Geralt.”

“Seems more fun to win it from you. And besides, you know I'll ask for something you don't usually let me have.”

“Very well," said Regis. "I accept this wager.” He began shuffling his deck. “And if _I_ win, you wear the lingerie.”

Geralt’s ears colored. “Those are for special occasions.”

“And for victories.”

They played. Geralt won the first game, Regis won the second, and their third was a draw. This, Regis decided, meant they both received their prizes, and he found himself temporarily distracted from his anxiety by the visualisation of Geralt in the lovely underthings he had purchased for him recently. The ones he had picked out had floral patterns sewn into the material. Pretty patterns for a pretty man.

This diversion didn’t last long. A young man came slamming into the room and through panting breaths, managed to inform Regis that he was needed in the throne room. Regis was out the room before the boy could finish conveying the message.

He forced himself to slow upon reaching the throne room. He could not be seen to be harried by the upper-class public. He was the spokesperson for all monsters, and he needed to make a good impression. There was no room for even the most minor of slip ups.

The chamberlain guided him inside and Regis performed the customary bow. He had become much better at it over the past few months.

“Your majesty,” he said, folding his hands behind his back so Meve wouldn’t see the anxious way they twitched.

“Mister Emiel Regis.” Meve nodded in respect. It was rare that she extended such a gesture to someone.  The surrounding staff took notice, exchanging bemused looks. “I received your proposal. It’s quite the… controversial one, to say the least.”

“I know, your majesty, but it is what I feel would be best for the residents of the alienage, as well as the city." He gave his lips a nervous swipe with his tongue. "I, of course, will understand if it cannot be employed at this period.”

“I expect, if it _were_ employed, it would receive substantial backlash,” said Meve. “What do you propose we do in the face of that?”

“It depends on the kind of backlash,” said Regis. “Peaceful protest should be responded to with education, while violent or disruptive protest should be treated as any other crime.”

Perhaps he was being overly positive, but he wasn’t anticipating as much backlash as the Queen seemed to be. It was the possibility of intelligent opposition getting together, working behind the scenes to dismantle his work, that worried him.

“And who would provide the education?”

“The witcher’s, perhaps. They have sway, and Geralt’s friends seem to have warmed to me.”

The Queen tapped her chin, regarding Regis with interest. “I haven’t many other questions. You were very detailed in your proposal – almost excessively so, I would say.”

“I will take that as a compliment, your grace.”

“You ought to. Being prone to excessive detail is a good quality to have in your line of work.”

Regis bowed to demonstrate humility. Another good quality to have in his line of work, he imagined.

Queen Meve leaned forward in her throne. “I have decided to accept your proposal. For a period of two hours a day, select monsters will be permitted to roam freely. We will start first with the children, as you suggest in your proposition, then move on to the other monsters. There is room for the amount of time they are permitted to leave the alienage to increase, provided I see your proposal having a positive effect.”

There were a few gasps from eavesdroppers. Regis bowed low, partially to hide the toothy smile on his face. He had managed to get it under control by the time he straightened.

“Now,” said the Queen, placing her hands together. “Let us discuss how this is to be implemented.”

The discussion lasted well into the evening and Regis left the throne room eager to tell Geralt of the good news. That plan fell through as he stepped into Geralt’s chambers to find Geralt on their bed, _in the lingerie_. His sheer stockings gleamed in the gentle light coming off a nearby candelabrum.

“Well,” Regis said slowly, haltingly, swallowing down excessive saliva. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the sight, and nor had he any desire to. “This is unexpected.”

“We had a deal,” said Geralt, shrugging. He rolled onto his side, showing off the pale curve of his buttocks and the strip of floral-patterned black between them. “Besides, I gather by the length of your absence that the Queen agreed to your proposition. Consider this a congratulatory gift.”

Regis fumbled with his coat buttons, kicking the door shut behind him. Too distracted to peel off his clothes by hand, he ended up misting out of them and leaving them to puddle on the floor by the bed. He leapt upon Geralt like the predator that he was and caught the mans wrists in hand, pinning them to the mattress.

“I am going to  _liberally_  be taking advantage of this gift,” he said, leaning down to claim his Witcher. Geralt met him half-way.

* * *

The week following the implementation of his request was nerve-wracking. Regis slept little and spent most of his nights tossing and turning in bed, unable to find slumber while the potential for failure hung over his mind. He wanted everything to go smoothly, without incident, when he knew it wouldn’t. There would be issues, and he was proven right when several monsters reported being spat at and refused entrance to shops. The perpetrators were taken aside and spoken to. While their behaviour was curbed by the threat of imprisonment should they escalate things, their hatred was no less apparent.

That ended up being the extent of the issues, however. There were no riots, no physical altercations at all, and no plans to ouste him behind the scenes. However reluctantly, the monsters were being accepted by the human residents of Rivia. Some even extended them a warm welcome, or at the very least demonstrated an agreeable curiosity. The recent mass introduction of monsters to the work force made the adjustment period shorter than it could have been.

While Regis was heartened by the success of his plan, he had no delusions about this leading to immediate freedom for his kind. There would always be reservations about monsters, especially while the mindless, bloodthirsty variations of them still existed. It could perhaps take a hundred years, maybe more before humans and monsters lived among each other in peace and harmony. The work he was doing in Rivia was just the first step.

He next requested that new houses be built in the alienage. It took Queen Meve three weeks to come to a decision, but she eventually agreed to his proposal. The new houses ended up being almost wholly funded by the Witcher’s. Geralt’s friends, while not entirely warm to him yet, regarded Regis as an acquaintance and were happy to help out. They had enough excess coin left over from their trysts in the arena that they could have paid for the building project ten times over, so donating a few coins each was a pittance.

Upon reaching his forth month in the job, the lives of the monsters had substantially improved, and Regis could not have been more content with his life. 

* * *

The wedding between himself and Geralt was a small event, with only close friends present to bear witness. It took place outside, far beyond the keep walls and in a grassy field scattered with trees. The sky was bright blue and the air was warm. They couldn’t have asked for better weather.

A beautiful red wedding blanket had been prepared by Orianna for the event. She and Dettlaff draped it over his and Geralt's shoulders throughout the event, as was tradition for vampiric kind, and together they uttered words of unification while he and Geralt swayed in the breeze. Geralt looked breathtaking in the long white robe he had picked out for himself. The intricate patterns of gold woven into the sleeves, collar, and lapels shone just as vividly as his eyes. He'd even had Orianna prepare his hair for him, pulling it into a warrior’s braid that made Regis’ sluggish heart thud just that little bit faster when he looked at it.

It was beautiful.  _He_  was beautiful.

In his simple black robe and slicked-back hair, Regis didn’t feel nearly as deserving of admiration, but Geralt looked at him with an almost reverence regardless.

When it came time to consummate their union, he lay Geralt down in bed and eased into the man slowly, as slowly as he could manage. He took great care not to tear anything vulnerable. With how much larger he was in his bat form, the fit was a tight one, and he could feel the head of his cock through Geralt’s abdomen as he licked a long line up Geralt’s belly. He didn’t start moving until he was sure Geralt had adjusted to his girth. Even with the great lengths he took to ensure Geralt wasn’t hurt, he expected Geralt would be walking with a limp for a few days.

Geralt, for his part, quickly became incoherent with pleasure and began moving into Regis’ thrusts of his own volition. He ended up coming a total of four times throughout the consummation, each orgasm more intense than the last, and was so wrung out when finally they finished that Regis had to wash him down while he was still lying in bed. It took Regis several washes to get rid of all the ejaculation they had spilled.

It wasn’t long after the wedding that Regis moved in with Geralt on a permanent basis. It was convenient, seeing as they both worked in the palace, and it enabled Regis to gift his house to a few homeless residents of the alienage. He didn’t have many possessions to speak of, so he only ended up bringing a box’s worth of belongings to Geralt’s chambers. Geralt insisted on buying him new things when he saw how little Regis owned.

He came home one evening to find Geralt packing bags for them.

“Are we going somewhere?” he asked, and Geralt didn’t even look up at him while replying.

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “We’re going to Toussaint. We’ll spend a few weeks there.” He heaved their bags onto the bed. “And don’t worry: Orianna will keep things in order while you’re gone.”

Regis blinked at him in surprise. “What’s the occasion?”

“There isn’t one.” Geralt smiled at him. “Just treating you to a holiday. You could use one. You’re always working yourself ragged.”

And so they went to Toussaint, and it was just as beautiful as Geralt had said it would be. The rolling hills, bright blue skies, and friendly locals distracted him from the work that awaited him back in Rivia, at least for the time being. With Dandelion there to play their host, they always had something to do, something to see, or something to sample, and they had such a good time with Dandelion that each day passed in the blink of an eye. When their two weeks were up, they both felt the length of their stay hadn’t been nearly long enough to enjoy all Toussaint had to offer and decided they would have to return soon.

For now, however, they would go home, back to Rivia, and Regis would resume his duties.

They were fortunate to arrive in the central hub of Rivia on a warm, sunny day. They carried their bags back up to Geralt’s chamber, one of which had been filled almost to bursting point with trinkets and gifts, and threw everything into a corner to be unpacked later. The journey home had taken a week. They hadn’t any desire to do anything but rest now that they were home.

It took Regis a moment to notice the double-doors that had been installed where a window had once been. He stared at it for a long moment, bewildered, and slowly approached to examine them up close. They were thick, dark wood, and intricately and beautifully patterned with pyrography. When he gave them a push open, he saw that they opened up to a balcony. A balcony that hadn’t been there before.

The sun bore down on his shoulders as he approached the ledge. From here he could see the bustling market square, the living quarters of both the working class and nobles, the entertainment district, and the alienage. Humans and monsters were milling about, intermingling.

Thick arms encircled his waist. Geralt’s cheek fell to his shoulder and he swayed them gently in place.

“Did you… arrange this for me?” asked Regis, coiling his fingers around Geralt’s and giving them a squeeze.

“Who else?” asked Geralt, his lips brushed Regis’ back. “I thought you might like it.”

“It’s  _beautiful_ , Geralt, it truly is, but why ever would you build me a balcony? It’s quite the unconventional gift.”

“So you can see the good work you’re doing whenever you want.”

That rendered Regis speechless. He smiled. No – he grinned, and he didn’t care to stifle it, to hide the jagged points of his teeth. He hadn’t hidden them in a very long time, and he expected he never would again.


End file.
